Search for the Pink Triangle
by Luvl12
Summary: James Foster, an escaped prisoner, finds the Heroes at Stalag 13 with one request: to get him out of Germany. While not an unusual request, his past complicates things. On top of that, James is not the most truthful man to the heroes. With two German officers, the Gestapo, and even Klink hot on the boy's trails, James relies on the Heroes to get him out alive.
1. Chapter 1

Snow crunched under James' bare feet as he waded through the snowy forest. A few miles back he passed a sign that read STALAG 13 P.O.W CAMP, so he hoped he was going in the right direction.

The wind nipped up the sleeves of his long coat which made him hug the folds tighter to him. German winter… nothing could have prepared him for how cold it would be. It wasn't even this cold in France this time of year. Winter there had always had a kind of homey and cozy element to it. The snow fell every few days and coated the streets and rooftops. Nothing unbearable. In Germany, however, the snow fell heavy and hard for days on end as if trying to freeze one into place.

The wind picked up again, hitting James square in the face and almost knocking him down. How much weight had he lost since the ghettos?

He pushed on despite the wind's aggression. He kept on muttering to himself that Stalag 13 was just up ahead. He'd see the gate soon enough.

James' feet felt like bricks with every step he took. Dread snaked up his back as he realized frostbite was setting in. The only thing that kept him from crying was that he feared the cold would freeze the tears on his face. He blinked back the waterworks and felt the intense flash of light pass through the slits in his eyes.

His heart beat faster. Warm, glowing light. He slowed his pace until he came to a stop to look in the direction where he saw the light. Minutes that felt like hours ticked.

Soft, yellow light flashed through the trees and leaves yet again. That light stayed for roughly five minutes before swinging on to another part of the forest.

Search lights. Undoubtedly search lights. The reach was much too far for the average flashlight and as the light came back round to rest, James knew. Stalag 13 was just a few yards away.

As the light made its rounds, James quickly ambled towards it. He made sure to not go into the light but rather to stay around the edge. He followed the light as much as he dared for getting caught meant firing squad.

James craned his neck to look at the source of the light. Through the barbed wire fence he saw a guard tower in a corner of the camp. Three others with similar search lights swiveled in their respective areas. What little else he could make out were a few barracks, a dog shed, and a longer building he assumed was a mess hall or office. Though no signage told him this was Stalag 13. At least none that he could see in such dim lighting.

A lump grew in his throat as the dread started to snake around his chest and constrict. Sure, he _had _found a POW camp. But it could be _any _POW camp. While they were all very much spaced out, it could have been possible to go the wrong way and end up at another one.

The sounds of the firing squad and dogs rang in his ears, yet James shook his head and repeated to himself that this was Stalag 13.

James continued to follow the light until he was behind a set of barracks. The faintest bit of light seeped through the cracks of a boarded window. Someone had to be up then. Electricity, wood, and candles were highly rationed.

The barbed wire made the fence impossible to climb, and the frozen ground would be even more impossible to dig under. He stumbled forward, thinking maybe he could get someone's attention when his foot slipped on a rock.

"Jesus Christ," he grunted, landing on his knees. The warm trickle of blood alerted him that his foot had been cut. Nothing he could do. It just added to the many at this point. That wasn't what caught his attention, however. No, it was the rock itself that interested him.

James staggered to his feet and felt around him until his numb hand landed on something hard. He pressed more into it and determined it was indeed a rock. His fingers found their way around the rock, and he prepared himself to throw it.

Winding up as best he could, the young man launched the rock in the direction of the barrack. The rock swiftly fell at his feet. He cursed softly under his breath before leaning down and picking the rock up again. This time he mustered as much energy as he could before launching the rock. Instead of hitting the barrack, it bounced off the fence with a slight rattle. This didn't seem to alert the guards though.

The snow began to fall harder and James bent down to find another rock. The wind picked up more and sent him to his knees. He scraped his hand on something hard and sharp again. Another rock. James grasped it with his bloody palm and threw it at the barracks out of anger. The force of it sent him flying forward as well. Along with the soft thump of his body hitting the snow came the soft, wooden thunk of the rock hitting the barrack.

James' soft, blue eyes looked up the barrack. The light flicked for a moment before going out.

The muscles in his neck gave out only seconds after his will. The cold, unforgiving snow started to cover him. By morning's light he would be buried.


	2. Chapter 2

Newkirk sat at the desk in the back of the barracks, hunched over a new uniform Colonel Hogan had requested of him. He worked by meager oil lamp while nursing a cigarette. He always grumbled when having to make a new uniform because he sewed everything by hand. Sure, they could sneak in plane and tank parts, but they couldn't sneak in a sewing machine. Rubbish.

The Brit paused for a moment to knock the ash off his cigarette when he heard the slightest tink outside. His head jerked towards the closed window but quickly he returned to his work. Probably just the late night getting to him. The barracks were shoddy, so a screw must have given out.

The uniform Newkirk was sewing was almost complete when a louder thunk caused him to ram the needle into his thumb. With a sharp cry of pain, he quickly turned the lamp off. He assumed it was Schultz about to tell him to turn the light off. He pulled the needle out of his thumb and held the wounded digit in his other hand as he waited for Schultz to go away.

The only thing he heard was the howling wind.

"Bloody hell, what does he want now?" Newkirk grumbled as he went to the window. He opened the boards to reveal no Schultz. He leaned out of the window to look down the side of the barrack and still saw no sign of the man. Quickly he went back over to the desk and grabbed the lamp. He turned it on low so as not to disturb any of the patrolmen. He lowered the lamp out of the window and down to the ground to see if there were any footprints.

To Newkirk's surprise, there were none. Only a rock with a red gash on it.

Knowing the rock came from outside the fence, he stretched the lamp as much as he dared out to the barbed wire. The weak light turned the innocent white snow into a mustard yellow, and a lump in the darkness into the half covered body of person.

The lamp almost fell out of Newkirk's hand. A body? Where did it come from? The team hadn't received any news of someone coming. Also, the person wasn't wearing any uniform the Brit could recognize. A civilian? All the way out here?

Newkirk shook his head and closed the window as he went to go get Colonel Hogan. He moved through the barrack without waking anyone to get to Hogan's office. He knocked before entering and set the lamp down on a table.

Hogan rolled on his side and groaned, "What?"

"I found someone, Colonel. Lying in the snow," Newkirk exampled while he grabbed Hogan's jacket.

"You what?" Hogan asked as he sat up and rubbed his face.

"Outside I found someone. They threw a rock at me window from the other side of the fence."

Colonel Hogan grabbed his jacket from Newkirk and shouldered it on. "Is it a soldier?"

"I don't think so. They're half buried in snow so I can't really tell."

The now fully awake Colonel Hogan hummed in thought. Obviously they couldn't just leave the person out there. Anyone without proper clothing would die in this weather. "You said they threw a rock at your window?" Hogan asked, trying to figure out who was out there.

"Yes, sir. Think they was trying to get our attention?"

"Well, you don't throw a rock into a POW camp unless you want in," he said. "Wake up Carter and go through tunnel two to bring them in. Don't need the Krauts finding him."

"Yes, sir," the Brit replied before exiting the Colonel's office. Carter slept in the bunk beneath his own, so Newkirk strided up with care before shaking the man awake.

Carter blinked open his eyes and swatted at Newkirk for interrupting his sleep. "What is it?" he grumbled, rolling to face the wall.

"There's a person outside the fence covered in snow. Colonel wants us to get to him before the Krauts do," Newkirk whispered back.

The Technical Sergeant sat up so his weight was resting on his elbows. "Is it a soldier?"

"I don't think so. But the bloke threw a rock at me window so they want something," he replied. "Now come on, come on. We're wasting time." Newkirk grabbed the thin blankets Carter was under and threw them to the edge of the bed. Carter sat hunched under the bed above him as he pulled on his shoes. All this fuss over a person that may not even be a soldier.

With laces tied and bomber jacket donned, the Sergeant joined the Corporal at the side of the false bed. Newkirk rapped on it lightly, and the bottom bunk gave way to reveal a sturdy ladder. "Tunnel 2," Newkirk told the American.

They dropped down into the tunnel system lit by a mixture of gas lights and candle sticks. They meandered down to tunnel two which led just outside the fence.

"Alright, remember, we gotta be quick. Don't need old Schultzie to find us out there," Newkirk warned.

Carter gripped the side of the ladder and said, "If he did that means he took the effort to lose a few pounds." Carter gave a slight chuckle as Newkirk hit the ladder, signaling him to move.

The pair emerged from under a fake bush covered in snow. The white flecks were still falling hard. The Brit rolled his eyes as this meant more tedious work for them. He always felt the worst part of being in a prison camp was doing prison camp work.

The American clapped his gloved hands together and rubbed them together before saying, "Alright, where's this body of yours?"

The Brit nodded a few paces ahead of them. "Should be a lump a snow up," he replied. The men skirted around the edge of the search light to help guide them. The fresh snow crunched under their boots, yet the prints were quickly covered by more snow falling.

After walking in the bitter cold for a few minutes, they saw the outline of something lying in the snow. It didn't come up to the height of the surrounding bushes and was much too short for a fallen tree. Immediately the men started walking faster towards the mound, and they both bent down to see if this was the body.

Newkirk grabbed what he assumed was an arm and rolled the body onto its back. Snow toppled to reveal a thin, lifeless body. The Brit pulled off his gloves and placed two fingers on the person's neck to check for a pulse. No use bringing a dead body back to camp.

Carter looked at Newkirk; his eyes filled with worry. After what felt like an eternity, the Brit nodded. "It's faint, but the bloke's got a pulse," he said, going to grab his wrist. To his surprise, his fingers could wrap twice around the wrist and still have more skin to touch. "My god, think this is a dame?" Newkirk asked as Carter grabbed the body by the ankles.

"Guess we'll figure it out once we get back to camp," Carter shrugged. "Now on three…" They counted off to three so they could lift the body together; however, as they said three and pulled up, they found the body to be much lighter than expected. Carter and Newkirk gave a look in the other's direction. Something wasn't right.

They carried the body back to the tunnel and laid it down next to the entrance. Newkirk opened the hatch so the other man could go in first. The Brit had more strength than the American, so he carefully put the body on top of his shoulders in an awkward fireman's carry. They descended down into the light where Carter waited for them. Now that they could see, Newkirk set the body down near a lamp and squatted in front of it.

In the warm glow of the light, Newkirk could see that the body was in fact male, though looked to be barely over sixteen. While the long coat he wore draped like a dress over his frame, he could still tell the man had measurements like a boy scout. Hollow cheeks showed bones with a neck that looked like it could barely support the poor kid's head. Not to mention the complexion like a glass of milk.

"Dear god…" Newkirk breathed, standing up and backing away from the boy.

Carter gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Wh-what do we do?" he asked.

"Go get Colonel Hogan. This is above our rank."

* * *

**A/N:**

**I would like to take a moment to mention that I do not write out accents because for me, they distract from the reading. I know Newkirk has a British accent with a Cockney dialect, and I'm sure you all do to. Just hear it in your head. Also, I don't know much British/Cockney slang/dialect so please forgive me on that front. I will do my best.**


	3. Chapter 3

James woke up with a splitting head ache that seemed to ripple through his entire body. The only thing that didn't hurt was his nose. However, the fact that his entire body needed one large aspirin wasn't what concerned him. No, what concerned him were the plattings of wood above him. His eyes shifted to the side, for moving his head was out of the question, to stare out at what was beyond the bunk.

A small table with a kettle sat a few feet away in the middle of the small room. He also saw girlie pictures from magazines and a few black-and-white family photos taped to the wall.

His breathing quickened as he realized these were barracks. Barracks of a prison camp to be precise. Not any barrack he had stayed in, but every prison camp barrack had similar features.

James tried to sit up but felt his movements constricted by so many blankets. Odd. Or maybe his strength had finally reached rock bottom. In any event, he used what little amounts of strength he could scramble together and pushed the blankets off of him. He then swiveled out of bed only to fall on his knees, hacking. The rush made him nauseous, yet with so little in his stomach, he could barely conjure up spit.

He wiped his mouth of dribble and felt the itchiness of a bandage. He pulled his hand back from his mouth to examine it and saw a bandage wrapped around it. A hazy memory from last night floated back to him. He'd fallen and cut his hand on a rock. He flipped his hand to see the palm and sure enough there were small droplets of blood seeping through the layers. It needed to be changed, but from experience James knew he was lucky enough to even have a bandage.

Speaking of bandages, as James pulled himself up to sit back down on the bed, he noticed both his feet wrapped in tight gauze. The only thing peeking out were his toes. They didn't _look _like frostbite had gotten to them, but the cold was a terrible trickster.

The odd thing was, however, while he was lucky to have his hand bandaged, it was a downright miracle to have both his feet covered. This was no regular prison camp…

His heart fluttered for a moment. Was this…Stalag 13? James closed his eyes to try and conjure every memory from last night. The snow and the search lights came flooding back to him with ease but not how he ended up here. The last thing he could remember doing was throwing the rock that had cut his hand at the fence in blind rage. Had it somehow hit the barracks?

Well, even if it did, that didn't mean it was _them _who found him. The Krauts could have easily found his body and his wounds tended to by the prisoners.

He hung his head and tried to get a grip on the situation. Things he knew for certain were: this was a prison camp, and he was still alive. Anything else was still up for debate.

James had gone to rocking himself to stay calm. A total panic attack would only worsen the situation. In the middle of his ritual, however, the door to the room opened and caused the young man to jump nearly out of his skin.

"Ouch," he seethed, rubbing his head from where it had hit the top bunk.

"Well alright then, he's awake," the man who had entered said. He wore a blue uniform, and there was a slight accent to his voice. James eyed him warily. While the uniform was that of a soldier's, this did not mean he was in Stalag 13. Though a small part of him already popped the champagne in celebration.

"Hey Colonel, our guest is awake!" the man called back behind him. The man kept the door open and walked to James before sticking his hand out in greeting. "I'm Corporal Peter Newkirk. You gave me quite a fright last night throwing that rock at me window."

James took his hand and let his arm go limp as the other shook it. "Is this….is this Stalag 13?" the young man asked softly.

The other smiled at him. "Well I sure hope so. If not, I've been in the wrong camp." Just then four more men entered the already cramped room. One of them sported a leather hat with an eagle pin on it, signaling him as the Colonel.

A woosh of air left James' lungs as he tried to speak. This was Colonel Hogan of Stalag 13. _The _Colonel Hogan.

"S-sir," James started, trying to stand yet toppling into Newkirk. The man caught him and the others tensed. Newkirk settled him back onto the lower bunk and placed a hand on his shoulder to keep him sitting.

Colonel Hogan smirked and sauntered over to the boy. "Little excited, are we?" he asked, getting on one knee before him.

"Y-you're Colonel Hogan?" James asked, eyes misting.

"The one and only," the man replied. His smirked could even be found in his eyes. "But everyone here already knows that. Why don't you share some new information with us? Such as, what's your name?"

For a moment, James was too stunned to speak. Right in front of him was the fabled Colonel Hogan. Never in a million years did he think he'd be face to face with the man even if he did make it to Stalag 13.

"James, James Foster," he said, extending his hand almost into Colonel Hogan's chest. The Colonel looked down at the thin, boney hand before gripping it lightly.

"Pleasure to meet ya. This here is Corporal Newkirk, resident magician and lock smith," Hogan said, nodding to the Brit. "The one with mustache is Sergeant Kinch, next to him is Technical Sergeant Carter, and finally is our cook Corporal LeBeau." The three men gave James a hello and a wave. James gave a nervous nod to all of them. "Now, tell me, what brings you to Stalag 13?"

"I-I heard that you…you could get people out of Germany," the boy managed.

The corners of Colonel Hogan's face dropped down to a straight line. He stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. James felt his heart fall to his stomach. "That's part of our operation, yes, but I'm curious. Why would an American civilian need help leaving Germany?"

"Civilian?" James echoed. He hadn't been called that in a long time.

"Well you don't look like a soldier, so you're not a POW."

James glanced at the men around him. There were no smiles. Only dead, serious eyes stared back at him. Sure, this was Stalag 13, but that didn't mean they'd have a passport ready to go. Hogan looked at James as if expecting more of an explanation and the boy felt his cheeks go rosy. He tapped his fingers on the side of the bed before saying, "I was a prisoner. The Germans don't just take soldiers, ya know. Anyone they don't like can end up in a camp or ghetto."

"How does an American end up as a German prisoner? Last I checked the Krauts were still struggling with the Reds," the Brit said, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

"I was in France for work when the German's invaded," James replied, trying to give as little information as possible.

Suddenly LeBeau stepped forward right after James had spoken and extended his hand. A sudden smile sat plastered across his face as he shook James' one good hand with both of his. "Corporal Louis LeBeau at your service. It has been quite a while since I last met anyone from France. Even if you are an American," he said, shaking James' hand.

Hogan placed a hand on LeBeau's shoulder and called his name in a stern tone. LeBeau let out a sigh and stepped back. "So how did you escape this prison camp? And how did you hear about Stalag 13?" Hogan asked.

"W-we were being moved to a new camp because the old one flooded. They shoved us into cattle cars and told us the journey would take two days. There would only be one stop to refuel so I took my chance then," the boy explained, starting to rock again at the memories. Everything rushed back to him as if he had to do it all over again. The smell of dung and unwashed bodies wafted around him as did the feeling of the biting cold. The Colonel's second question got lost in the sound of dogs barking and gun shots.

The scene before him played out like a movie, and he felt his chest tightening. As the sound of guns shots faded, they were replaced by his heavy breathing and the snapping of fingers. The movie reel started to fuzz at the edges until the picture melted into real life. Colonel Hogan kneeled before him again and Newkirk held his arm tight. James' face flushed a bright red. "I-I-I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I don't know what came over me…"

Hogan sighed and shook his head. "That's alright. It happens. But I do need to know how you heard of us. If word of our operation slips to the Krauts then we may not be able to get anyone out of Germany," Hogan told him.

"Just word of mouth, sir. A rumor here, some gossip there. The officers and most of the prisoners chalked it up to fantasy because no one had ever escaped Stalag 13. But…but I thought I had to try."

Hogan gripped the boy's thin shoulder and gave him a nod. With that, Colonel Hogan stood and called LeBeau's name. The Frenchman stood right at attention. "Whip up something for our guest. He's practically skin and bones. And Kinch, get London on the line. Tell them we have a new package that needs to be picked up." Both men gave Hogan a "yes, Colonel" before exiting out of the little office. "Newkirk, when he's up for it, take his measurements. He'll need to look like a German. And Carter, see what you can do about getting more bandages." They both gave another "yes, Colonel" and left the James alone with the Colonel.

"Thank you, Colonel Hogan," James said softly. "I know I'm no soldier or spy, but I really do need to get out of Germany."

"Don't worry about it, kid. Just lay down and get a few more minutes of rest. In a few days you're going to be very busy."

James nodded and slowly fell back on the bunk. Hogan left after a few minutes to go check on things regarding the camp. When the door to the office closed for the final time, James knew now he just had to play the waiting game.


	4. Chapter 4

LeBeau set a plate of piping hot food in front of James and told him, "Bon appétit." The metal plate held a generous helping of powdered eggs, bacon, and French toast. Alongside it, the Frenchman laid a cup of coffee. James' eyes went as wide as saucers.

"I-I hope I'm not taking food off of anyone's plate," the young man said, tentatively grabbing a fork.

LeBeau waved his hand dismissively. "We get most of our food from the underground. Do not worry. Eat," the man reassured him.

James did not have to be told twice. Within seconds he was inhaling the food. The chef laughed at the boy's voraciousness and waved Corporal Newkirk over. "Look, someone who enjoys my cooking even more than the Krauts," LeBeau joked.

Newkirk took a seat and shook his head in disagreement. "I think even a cup of the old gruel would look like a five course meal to him. He's railway thin," the Brit commented. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a match before taking a drag.

After taking a few seconds to cough from the smoke James wiped his mouth and blushed. "Sorry. While it has been some time since my last meal, it did taste great," he told the Frenchman.

"Did the Krauts not feed you?" LeBeau asked.

The boy looked down at the almost empty plate before replying, "Not every day. Sometimes not even for weeks. But….we managed. I'm still here aren't I?"

Newkirk tapped the cigarette ash into a cup and tried to change the subject. Remembering the condition the boy had been in last night, he knew the kid probably didn't want to talk about it. "I think the better question is what kind of American goes to France for work. What were you? One of them interpreters?"

LeBeau saw the shift in conversation and nodded. "Ah, oui, what kind of work did you do, Mon ami?" Really any conversation about his beloved country excited him. It had been so long since he heard anything about his homeland.

James scraped his fork on the side of his metal plate. Grease from the bacon made soft trails at the end of the prongs. "I was with an entertainment company. They did a brief tour in America and I followed them back to France," he said.

"What kind a entertainment? Hogan did tell ya I did part-time as a magician, yeah?" Newkirk asked. He extinguished his cigarette on the table top before pulling out a deck of cards from inside his coat pocket. "Wanna see a trick?"

The young man shook his head. "Maybe later. I was a dancer. A ballet dancer to be exact."

There was a brief pause in the barrack. Newkirk and LeBeau gave each other a look while James continued to fiddle with his fork. It ended up being LeBeau who broke the tension by asking which company the kid danced for.

"The Pauper," he answered, poking at his eggs. Another silence crept up on them but James stopped it by continuing, "I saw my feet when Sergeant Carter re-did my bandages. They're all cut up and swollen. And even if they weren't, I've practically lost all the muscle in my legs. I don't think I'll ever dance again." Newkirk darted his eyes down to James' feet. Apparently they had found some boots for the kid to wear because his feet were clad in old leather.

Another opportunity to change the subject showed itself, and Newkirk took it. "I see you've got a pair of shiny new rubber. Bet a new outfit would make them look even better," he said as he stood up. "Come on then to the back room so I can take your measurements." James stood, supporting himself with the table. Newkirk allowed him to use his shoulder as a crutch and they made their way to the room the Brit had been in last night. LeBeau gathered the dishes and set what was left of the meal into the scrap bucket for the dogs.

Newkirk and James hobbled into the backroom where James found a stool to rest on. The Brit grabbed a strip of white measuring tape, a pencil, and a notepad for taking the measurements with. "Alright mate, take off that coat so we can get started," he instructed, gesturing to where the boy could put it.

James tensed and gripped the bottom of his chair. "Can't you take the measurements with the coat on?" he asked.

"Well I could, but then they would be inaccurate. You'd be wearing a suit that'd fit like that coat," he told him. "Now take it off so we can get started."

James shook his head again and held it tight around his thin frame. "My clothes are rags underneath. I'll catch a cold within minutes."

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "Oh, rubbish. Just take the bloody thing off. This won't take more than five minutes." He stepped toward the boy in hopes to just yank it off him, but James jumped and fell back off the stool. The Brit halted mid step and stared down at the mass before him. The boy tucked himself into fetal position.

The soldier looked at the boy below him. He was cowering in fear over a simple coat. Unsure of how to proceed, Newkirk slowly bent down and extended his hand. "If this is about your weight, don't fret over it. None of us are in the exact shape we want to be in, eh? But I really do need to take ye measurements without the coat or else you'll end up with a suite sized for Schultzie," he explained.

James shook his head. "N-no. I-I can't. You wouldn't help me if I took the coat off," he replied.

Newkirk sighed. "Unless you were wearing a German uniform under that old thing, nothing could scare us away, mate," he assured.

"Will you tell Colonel Hogan what's under it if I take it off?"

The Brit stayed silent a moment before replying, "As long as it doesn't put us in danger, I will not tell Colonel Hogan."

The lump on the ground stirred as James moved to stand up. Newkirk got up as well and backed up a few paces. The coat fell to the ground in a soft, brown heap. Newkirk's grey eyes didn't know where to rest. Even the boy's clothes seemed to hang off him; not to mention just how much bone peaked up from the neckline of his shirt. That wasn't what battled for his attention though. No, what fought quite a great war for the Brit's gaze was a pink triangle sewn into the shirt with a serial number underneath or the same number branded onto the boy's arm


	5. Chapter 5

James averted his gaze from Newkirk's eyes. He could tell what was grabbing the soldier's attention. And why wouldn't it? It wasn't every day you saw a person branded like cattle. Not to mention the tell-tale triangle sewn onto his shirt. Somewhere deep inside him he knew they would find out, but he wanted to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.

"Are you done gawking?" he asked, still unable to look at the other. "Take the measurements."

Newkirk stumbled into action with his measuring tape. James listlessly held up his arms as the man worked. The brand screamed from the side of his arm in thick, black numbers. The boy noticed Newkirk made every attempt to avoid looking at it. "Are you going to tell Colonel Hogan about it?" he asked as the other took his leg measurements.

"Well, I, I don't think that's something to hide from him," Newkirk said as he started to wrap the tape around the other's waist. James felt the slight tightening around his midsection as the soldier got the measurement. The Brit shook his head and wrote down a number barely in the double digits. "They really weren't feeding you blokes were they?" James didn't answer and simply reached down to pick up his coat from the floor. He pulled it on and yanked at the collar.

James turned to walk out to the main room of the barracks when Newkirk piped up once again, "How old are you, mate?"

"I'm 21," James replied, leaning on the doorframe. "Why?" he turned around to face the other.

Newkirk glanced down at his notepad with the measurements on them. "Those numbers suit a teenager better than they do you," he replied. "You know what those Krauts were doing to ya is bloody wrong. It's against the Geneva Convention it is. Those blokes should be shot."

James hung his head; wisp of brown hair fell into his eyes. "Who could we have reported them to? Other Germans? We were practically the scum of the earth to them."

"Just for being civilians of the wrong nationality? Rubbish."

Blue eyes flecked up to stare at the Brit's face yet again. He used the word "civilian". Surely he saw the pink triangle? Did he see and just not know what it meant? Or was he being polite to save the boy some dignity? Heart in his throat, James lifted up a part of his coat to show the pink triangle. While Newkirk winced away, James asked, "Do you know what this means?" He pointed to the pink fabric sewn onto his shirt.

The other glanced back at the boy and saw where he was pointing. He puckered his lips before replying, "Merit badge?"

The boy internally felt his knees buckle.

He shook his head and put his coat flap down. "No. It's a signal of prisoners that didn't go easy. Let's anyone know we're 'trouble makers'. Whatever that means," he lied. While he had expected the soldiers to have some inkling what the pink triangle meant, a more wistful part of him thought of the lie beforehand.

Newkirk cracked a slight smirk. "Put up a fight, eh? Well, you certainly aren't a chicken. Most blokes don't try to run from the German army without a full proof plan." The comment made James smile as well. At least he wasn't looked down upon here. There was some respect in running through the German winter barefoot.

The soldier gripped James' arm to help him walk back to the main room. Before they left, however, Newkirk promised not to tell Hogan about his arm or the patch on his shirt. James thanked the man. The less who knew he'd been branded like cattle the better.

Newkirk set the boy down at the table. LeBeau stood at the door keeping watch while Carter leaned against the wall next to a set of bunks. "How's your feet holding up?" the Sergeant asked.

"They're….okay," James sighed.

"Well, I'm no doctor, but I'm sure once they heel, well, you'll be able to run circles around this camp!"

The boy grimaced at the thought of running. He was sick of the sport. Instead he thought about what he really wanted to do: dance. "Think…Think I'll be able to dance again?" he risked. Man may not be a doctor, but if he was in charge of bandaging him, then he must know something.

Carter raised an eyebrow. "Dance? Like the Charleston?" James looked down at the table. Initials had been etched in with a pen knife along with dates. "What did I say?" Carter asked, his tone clueless.

Newkirk gave the Sergeant a look before squeezing the boy's shoulders. "Don't let him get to you. He only ran a drug store. He ain't no proper doctor."

Carter cried out in protest just as one of the bunk beds rustled. James looked up in time to see the bottom bunk's frame slide up into the top's. From below Colonel Hogan and Kinch popped out. A few seconds later, the bottom bunk slid back into position. The boy couldn't take his eyes off it. He knew the others were sleuths at getting people out, but he didn't know the barracks were rigged.

Hogan stepped in front of the boy which stopped his gawking. The man had that smirk on his face from this morning. Must be his resting face. "Good news, kid. London got back to us and said they'd be able to transport you in a few days' time. We just have to get some stuff planned on our end," the Colonel explained.

If the bed had left James flabbergasted, he was absolutely gob smacked now. "L-London? _The _London? As in the city of London?" James asked.

"By way of submarine, of course, but a stepping stone to London," the Colonel replied.

James could hardly believe his ears. After so much work and fear, it was almost over. Stepping out of Germany would have been fine enough for him. He stood to properly thank Colonel Hogan, but LeBeau quickly turned to the group and said, "Schultz is coming!"

In his half-stance, Newkirk pushed the young man towards Carter who proceeded to push James onto a bed. Hogan and Kinch leaned against it to hide the boy from the prying eyes of the Sergeant as he entered the barracks calling out in German.

Hearing the sharpness of the German tongue made James' heart shift into second gear. Though his vision was obscured, he could still make out the tell-tale uniform and an extra-large gut under it.

Of course. No wonder he hardly got feed. Their rations probably went to the likes of this "Schultz".

"What's up, Schultz?" Hogan asked casually.

"Colonel Klink would like to see you," the man, Schultz, said.

"What for?" Hogan questioned.

"I do not know."

"Sure ya do, Schultzie. Come on, you can tell us. Ain't we mates?" came a British voice, obviously Newkirk's.

"Nein! I know nothing, nothing!" the man insisted.

There was a brief argument before Hogan quieted the men down. "Tell the Commandant I'll be there in a minute," he said.

There was an exchange of goodbyes before the air came back into the room. Hogan and Kinch stepped away from the bed and helped James sit up. "Sorry for being so rough," Hogan apologized, dusting off the man's shoulder. "It's just easier if he really does see nothing."

"I-It's no problem," James said as he clenched his fist to keep his hands from shaking. Not five seconds ago he had been laying just a few feet away from a German guard. A German _prison _guard.

"What do you think Klink wants to discuss with you, sir?" Carter asked.

Hogan shook his head. "I don't know, but I'll try to make it quick. Newkirk, have you taken his measurements?" Newkirk nodded with a quick "yes, sir". "Good. Start making civilian clothes. Carter, tell the boys we need new documents forged and more money printed. Kinch and LeBeau, make sure this one doesn't get caught." Each man gave a "yes, Colonel" before heading off to their respective task. Colonel Hogan nodded and adjusted his hat before leaving.

LeBeau sat down beside James and took the boy's trembling hand in his. "You really shouldn't be so scared of Schultz. We pay him off with forged money and information he doesn't want to hear."

James squeezed LeBeau's hand and sighed out deeply. "Even a paid off German guard is still a German guard."


	6. Chapter 6

Colonel Hogan walked the short distance from the barracks to Klink's office. He trotted up the steps and opened the door to find Helga sitting at her desk. "Hey, doll," he said, walking over to her and pecking her on the forehead. "What does Klink want with me?"

Helga shrugged and hummed softly. "I don't know. He got a call earlier, but what else is new?" Hogan grunted and pushed off from her small desk. Without knocking, he opened the Commandant's door and sauntered in.

"Hello, Colonel Klink, what can I do for you?" he asked, folding his hands in front of him.

"Did I say you could enter?" Klink spat, standing up from his desk.

"No, but I didn't think I had to since Schultz said you wanted me," he said.

Klink's grip on his riding crop tightened and he grunted. "Oh never mind. I did call you in here for a reason. You see, I got a call from two prison camp officers. Apparently one of their prisoners escaped," the German officer explained.

Hogan's eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. He had a suspicion that this escapee was their current guest. "Really? Was it Stalag 5 again? They really should keep as close an eye on those guys as you do," Hogan replied, eying the other's cigar box.

"It wasn't a prisoner of war. It was just a prisoner. They think he may have gone to one of the Stalags to seek refuge. I wanted to know if you have seen him," Klink said.

"Well, Klink, I need a little more to go off of. I mean surely he must be a great man with a barrel chest and beard to escape the German army," the American teased. The smirk that formed reached his eyes.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Colonel Hogan. And you would know him because they said he wears a pink triangle. He is…how would you Americans put it…diseased?"

The man's smirk fell. "Diseased? What kind of disease?"

A twisted smile formed on Klink's lips now. "Oh I am sure you know what disease I am talking about. And they told me it can spread when in close quarters, so if you find this man, I hope you report him at once. Dismissed!" The Commandant gave the Colonel a salute which the man returned.

Hogan marched out of Klink's office, even ignoring Helga. She peered around her desk as he went, his footsteps echoing in the office as he reached the barracks. The door hit the wall, alerting Newkirk who sat at the table sewing the new outfit.

"What's the matter, guvnor?" the Brit asked, setting down his needle and thread.

"Where's James?" Hogan asked.

"Down in the tunnels with LeBeau. What's wrong?" Newkirk pressed, rising from his seat.

"I think our guest may be hiding something from us. I need to question him."

Newkirk jumped in front of the fake bunk to block Hogan. "Now wait just a minute there, sir. What did the old crank say to you that has your knickers in a bunch?"

"The longer we wait the worse it'll get. Now move, Corporal, and that's an order."

Newkirk deflated and shambled aside. Colonel Hogan only pulled rank under dire situations.

The American knocked on the side of the bed, and the bottom rose to the top revealing a ladder. He took the rungs two at a time. Once he reached the bottom, the faint sound of French singing alerted him to the two men's location. He followed the sound to find James and LeBeau seated next to an old phonograph. They were both singing the French classic with smiles on their face. Hogan walked up behind them and pulled the needle from the player, announcing his presences with silence.

"Bonjour to you too, Colonel. Monsieur Foster and I were reminiscing about our times Paris," LeBeau said with his child-like smile. James didn't have such a nonchalant look, however. Before he was stretched closer to the phonograph with a smile. Now he reeled back in his chair, eyes darting all across Hogan's face.

"Cut the pleasantries. We need to have a chat with our friend over here." The Colonel nodded to James and yanked them both up by the shoulders. James still struggled to walk, so he stumbled as he stood. LeBeau went to steady the man as a human crutch, but Hogan pulled the short man away. "Go get Kinch and meet me in my office," he ordered as he dragged James to the stairs.

"What's going on Colonel Hogan?" the young man asked, struggling to keep pace with the soldier. "Did I do something wrong?"

The other didn't answer and continued pushing the boy to the stairs. Colonel by nature was not a violent man, but when someone threatened the safety of his men, he became a real mean papa bear.

James climbed, slipping once or twice which earned him a rough shove. The two emerged from the bunk where Newkirk and Carter waited for them. The Colonel nodded to his office as LeBeau and Kinch also emerged from the bunk. James locked eyes with Newkirk, yet the Brit quickly turned away. He'd told the Colonel not a word, but how could he communicate that to the poor sod? Especially with the man dragging the kid around like a half-dead rabbit.

Soon all the men were crammed like sardines into Colonel Hogan's officers' quarters. Every man looked stoic except for James who was pale as a sheet and struggling to stay upright. The long coat he wore looked even bigger, and years of his life washed away from his face to produce a child standing amongst the men.

"Commandant Klink was informed today of an escaped prisoner from a regular prison camp. He told me this prisoner wore a pink triangle because he is 'diseased'," Hogan emphasized diseased with air quotes. Three of the four men looked at James with side eyes, and Carter shifted away. Newkirk only looked confused. That's not what the triangle meant, did it? "Now, I see on that coat there is no pink triangle. Why don't you take it off?"

James gripped the folds of his coat and backed away. He was about to say something when Newkirk interjected, "Now wait just a minute Colonel. What do you mean by disease? Klink could have just meant some old stomach bug."

"He didn't say, but he said it spread quickly in barracks. And even if it is a stomach bug, I can't have half my men in bed with a tummy ache. Our work is too important for that."

"Do I look sick to you?" James asked, his voice an octave higher than before. A silence hung in the room as a unanimous answer. "I'm only this skinny because those damned Germans didn't feed us…"

"And how do we know that? Clearly you haven't been telling us the whole story," Hogan retorted. "Now take off that coat." The officer had to bite back pulling rank. Kinch gave the Colonel the side eye and joined in on the chaos as a mediator.

"Breathe a little, Colonel. The boy's clearly been through some stuff," the Sergeant said softly. The man took a step towards the frightened brunette and held out his hand. "Just take off the coat and this can all be over with."

James shook his head. "If I do, you'll kick me out. Or turn me into the Commandant," he protested.

"If you don't take it off, I'll personally throw you over the fence," the Colonel said.

James shrunk back and started to dissolve into his coat. Kinch snapped a look at the Colonel before signaling to Carter to get ready to grab the kid. The other Sergeant gave the slightest of nods as he took a position closer to the boy. "Please try to understand from our side. Just take off your coat. If there's no pink triangle, then no harm done. But if there is, we need to know what you're carrying," Kinch told him. Carter looked at the boy then to Kinch who did not acknowledge him.

The young man sniffled and shook his head. "I-I can't. Pl-Please, just get me out of here. Get me out of Germany," he begged. Kinch let out a disappointed sigh before nodding to Carter. James had no time to react before the American grabbed him from behind and yanked down his coat. James' elbow caught it from falling to the floor thus preventing it from showing his brand, but the pink triangle was on clear display for all to see. Once Carter looked down and caught sight of it, he let go of the boy. James fell backwards and landed on his rear. Everyone in the small room stood a good radius from him.

Tears collected and pooled over the young man's eyes. They ran down his dirty cheeks, picking up specs of dirty with them as they went. Hot salt burned his eyes as the tears mimicked the blood boiling in his veins.

Hogan scoffed and marched over to the boy. He grabbed him by his shirt collar and pulled him to his feet. James couldn't make eye contact. "You endanger my men and don't even have the guts to admit it when caught red handed. Crying won't get you anywhere, so the least you can do is tell us what you're carrying so we can radio London and get some medicine."

James sniffled and coughed as he tried to respond. Colonel Hogan gripped the boy's collar tighter and shook the poor lad. The soldiers could only look on in a mix of horror and sympathy. No man wanted to see another being slapped around, not even Hogan himself, but a sickness in these conditions could easily turn into an epidemic. The First World War taught them that.

"What do you have?" the Colonel asked again, staring down to try and connect with crystal blue eyes.

James sniffled again and finally looked up at Colonel Hogan. Without saying a word, he brought his hands up to hold the sides of the American's face and kissed him on the lips.


	7. Chapter 7

The Colonel pushed him away, causing James to fall to the ground yet again. He was getting very acquainted with the floors in this barrack. "What the hell did you do that for?" the Colonel asked, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his bomber jacket.

"You wanted to know what disease I have. Well, I showed you," James spat back. His heart felt like it was about to break a rib. He knew he could be shot on the spot. But how else would Colonel Hogan believe him? The man had little reason to trust his word.

"Mono?" Carter implored, referencing the nickname "Kissing Disease".

"No," James sighed. "Homosexuality." He let the word hang in the air a moment before continuing, "The Germans call it a disease. Disease of the soul they said. They gave us pink triangles as signifiers of that."

"Blimey, so you did lie to me," Newkirk said, earning him looks from the others. "When I was taking his measurements, he told me that the triangle meant he was a tough prisoner to deal with."

"And you didn't think to mention that to us?" Hogan asked, placing his hands on his hips.

"I asked him not to tell. I thought you wouldn't want to help me."

"Why didn't you just tell us in the first place that's what you were arrested for? When Klink called me in I could have ran some diversion."

The tears started up again as he tried to stay calm. Words jumbled into sounds that just sounded like babble. James dissolved into a mess of water and bones on the floor, covered by his coat. He held his head in his hands as salt rubbed into the bandage. He could already picture what waited for him: the truck full of dying bodies, dogs snapping at his calves, and the gates to Stalag 13 closing behind him. The truck's engine roared over the wails of other prisoners, and the faces of the unsung heroes disappeared into the falling snow.

A gentle squeeze on his bony shoulder brought James out of his delusion. The strained face of LeBeau stood over him. "Come on, Monsieur, you look like you could use a cup of tea," the Frenchman cooed, helping the boy to his feet. Crystal blue eyes shot daggers at Colonel Hogan as the duo turned to leave. A bond that had been made earlier between the soldier and civilian seemed to snap at that moment.

LeBeau set the boy down at the table and put the kettle on the stove. James placed his hands in his lap to hide their shaking. He could kiss his ticket to England goodbye. Hogan would tell the Commandant and he'd be gone within the hour.

The smell of cinnamon reached his red nose as LeBeau set down a cup of tea. James mumbled a thank you before trying to keep the contents of the cup from spilling all over him. Steam assaulted his lips as he sipped. What little didn't dribble down his chin tasted quite nice. LeBeau pulled out a handkerchief and offered it to James. He took it and dabbed at the excess.

LeBeau then started talking to James in French about nothing and everything. Anything to get his mind off of what had happened with Colonel Hogan. James replied back in broken tongue. It had been years since he last spoke French, and even when he lived there he only had a basic grasp of the language. Though the familiar slowly calmed the boy down. His hands rested along the sides of the cup which now was almost completely in his belly. It warmed every tired muscle in his body.

Noticing the cup was empty, LeBeau stood up and refilled it before sitting down and resting his chin in his palms. The Corporal sighed heavily before asking, "You know the Colonel is not like the Germans, oui?" James noticed the other switched back to English.

"Could have fooled me," James muttered. "I always heard that Colonel Hogan was a calm and collected man. In there I swear he looked just like a German rat." His hands clenched into fist. LeBeau squeezed the non-bandaged one and tsked.

"He was just trying to protect his men."

"By treating me like scum…" the tears welled up again and James sniffled to keep them at bay. He was about to go on when the other men exited Hogan's quarters. James only got a glance at Hogan before he walked out the barracks with Kinch and Carter in toe. Newkirk decided to take a sit across from LeBeau and crumpled his hat in his hands.

"Kinch and Carter are going to take a walk with the Colonel to try and cool his head," Newkirk explained. James kept his mouth shut from snapping back with a remark. He heard the shuffling of cards and looked up to see that Newkirk had taken out a deck. He shuffled them quickly, yet no card fell from the deck. "Wanna play a round?"

James shook his head and looked at his tea. The smell of cinnamon wafted back up to him. The sweetness laced his lungs with its secrets. Beside him LeBeau hummed a popular French tune while Newkirk dealt the cards. "Will Colonel Hogan report me?" James asked as the two men picked up their cards.

"I don't know about that one, lad," Newkirk sighed. "He's proper mad, but at different things than just you."

"But still me," he noted.

LeBeau slapped down a card into the pile which allowed Newkirk to light a cigarette before drawing from the deck. "A smidge, yeah. But so am I," the Brit said, blowing out smoke above their heads.

The cinnamon started to smell sickly. "You too…?" After all that, he barely had one guy on his side. Hell, if he hadn't of spent so much time in France, LeBeau would probably think him an American floosy.

"Well of course. You lied to me," the Corporal explained while placing two cards into the pile. "This operation we got here relies on a few key things. One of them being trust in your mates."

"If I told you the truth, you would have gone straight to Colonel Hogan," James protested. That sweet lace began to buzz in his lungs.

"And told him what?" Before the young man could respond, LeBeau called something out that made the Brit grumble. He picked up five cards from the pile before selecting some to dish out. "Our job is to get blokes out of here."

"Soldiers, you mean. Or people with information. What good is a prisoner to you? And on top of that a queer!"

"Tranqullité, mon ami," LeBeau warned.

"Do you see how ruddy you look?" Newkirk slapped his cards down on the table to indicate the poor condition the boy was in. "You looked even worse last night when Andrew and I carried ya in. The only thing that would stop Colonel from helping ya is if you were a spy."

Hot, fiery cinnamon burned the congealed snot locked in James' nose until it started to run like a faucet. Same with his eyes. LeBeau picked up his handkerchief and handed it back to James. The kid buried his face into the soft fabric and tried to muffle his cries. He'd blown it. No straight man wanted to be kissed by another man. Especially one as decrypted as himself. However, not all in James' mind was forgiven as he had seen the spark of a German officer in Hogan that was not soon to go away.

Newkirk sighed and shook his head. "Come here, lad," he said, drawing the kid in for side hug. James fell easily into the half embrace of the British Corporal. He felt another set of arms wrap around him and knew it was LeBeau. At least he knew two people were on his side.

* * *

**A/N:**

**I won't be at home most of the day tomorrow, so I thought I would publish the chapter early. I really value my update schedule and don't want to fall behind.**


	8. Chapter 8

Hogan, Kinch, and Carter walked about the camp. The Colonel chain smoked, going through almost an entire pack of smuggled in cigarettes. The ash helped cloud the image of James huddling up on the floor having another panic attack. "Why didn't he just tell us at the start?" the Colonel asked, stomping out a cigarette.

"Would you admit something like that to a bunch of strangers, Colonel?" Kinch retorted, handing the officer another cigarette.

Hogan grunted and took a puff. "You know we can't help someone if we don't know all the information," he replied.

"And what good does knowing that information do for us now? Aside from probably giving the kid more things to have nightmares about." Kinch was careful with his wording. He didn't want to undermine his commanding officer, but what happened in the barracks made his stomach turn.

"I think you should apologize, sir," Carter piped up. They made a U-turn in tracks made a few minutes before from a similar U-turn.

"I know that, Carter, but he's at fault here too," Hogan said.

"So why don't you both sit down and talk like adults? You acted like a school yard bully, Colonel." Kinch popped a cigarette in his mouth and lit it with a match. Hogan puffed up before a deep sigh deflated him. The man was used to soldiers being tough enough not to crack.

After another lap, the three men headed back to the barracks. Dinner would start in less than an hour which meant another roll call. Kinch entered first, followed by Carter. Newkirk and LeBeau sat on either side of James, ready to ground him if needed. Last came in Colonel Hogan with his hat crumpled in his hands. He walked slowly towards the table and locked eyes with James. The Colonel took the seat directly in front of hom with Kinch by his side. Carter took the duty of look out.

"I think you and I need to discuss some things," Hogan said, setting his cap on the table. The eagle on it gleamed in the light. Not a speck of dirt or dust anywhere near it. "What happened earlier was unprofessional on my account. You're not one of my men, and I shouldn't have treated you like one. For that, I would like to apologize."

James gave him a blank stare. The crystal clear window of his eyes showed that forgiveness was not home yet. Without a word, James pulled on the sleeve on his coat to reveal thick, black lettering. Hogan's eyes widened and Kinch averted his gaze.

"This is only a part of the torture I suffered at the hands of those German officers, Colonel Hogan. I can't say those memories are fond, but they're very vivid. If I was blind, I would have thought I was back with them this afternoon," he said before letting his sleeve drop back down. "I know you care a lot for your men, Colonel, but I can't help what I experienced. I'm sorry for not being fully transparent with you before, yet do you understand why I couldn't tell you?"

"I-I do, and I'm sorry for what you have been through with these damned Krauts. I know a man's actions speak louder than his words, so I hope by the time we get you to London you'll have fully forgiven me."

A spark flashed in James' eye as hope took a seat beside the crystal window pane. "You're still willing to help me?"

"Of course. That's our operation, right?" Hogan placed his hat on his head, the eagle up turned towards the sky ready to fly. He extended his hand for James to shake which triggered a mild flinch. LeBeau held the boy's wrist in case he fell backwards. Seeing this guttural response, Hogan retracted his hand and opted to place it in his pocket. "Kinch, how long did London say before we could move him?"

"Two days," the Sergeant answered.

"Good, that'll give us enough time to square away everything here. Newkirk, how's the clothes coming along?"

"I can have them done by tomorrow night, sir," the Corporal answered.

"Fantastic. Carter, how are the boys doing downstairs?"

Carter answered without taking his eyes off the slit in the door, "The money is printed and waiting. I just need to take James' picture for his passport and ID card."

"Seems like we're right on schedule then. And James, I want you to eat and rest. You'll need all your strength for the move."

The boy nodded and said a soft thank you. His cheeks flushed with excitement and Colonel Hogan couldn't help but grin. Even if the tyke did have some resentment, he'd hopefully be able to smooth it all over.

"Oh! Guys! Schultz is coming!" Carter alerted. That prompted Newkirk and LeBeau to grab James by the elbows and lift him up. They practically dragged the kid to the false bunk and tapped it to reveal the tunnels.

"There's food down there and drink. Don't be modest about any of it either," the Brit instructed. "I want to see at least half of LeBeau's weight eaten when we get back."

"O-Okay," James said, steadying himself on the ladder. Newkirk made sure the kid's head was down before hitting the side of the bed just in time to hear Schultz call them out the barracks to line up.


	9. Chapter 9

The underground was empty save for James. Being present for roll call was one of the key things to keeping the base a secret. He stumbled around, trying to find somewhere to sit and eat. Crates of different goodies lined the wall like a buffet. The crates themselves were non-descript, but the smell wafted all about the room in a most enticing way. Almost masked the stench of musk and dirt.

With his eyes glued to the spoils, James tripped over a stool. He caught himself before he smacked his lip into a chair leg and righted the seat so he could sit. He peered inside one crate and saw nine, neat little jars of jam. An unsteady hand reached in and pulled out a thick, glass jar. Sweet, sticky goodness lined the sides. A faded label read "Strawberry" in cursive. Placing the jar between his thighs, James gripped the lid with his good hand and twisted.

The lid popped off, allowing the sweet aroma to assault his nose. A deep growl from the pit of the boy's stomach demanded to have the jelly. There was no spoon or knife within arm's reach, so James did the only logical thing: he ate it with his fingers. He scooped the sticky substance with two, then three, fingers into his mouth, swallowing every bit like water. The sugar zinged in his mouth while the tanginess of the strawberry pulled at the corners of his cheeks. Even before being captured, such a delicacy was practically unheard of. Anything this good went to the war effort.

James set the half empty jar down in front of him and wiped his fingers on the side of his coat. All three fingers used stuck together as if with glue, and his lips fared no better.

With his belly full and sleep pulling at his lids, the young man decided to take his boots off. While he thought it was kind of Carter to give them to him, they pinched his toes something fierce. He unlaced them with some effort before kicking the first boot off. The stench of damp wool hit him like a freight train. He pulled the sock off and tossed it down a corridor. Next came the other shoe with the same horrid smell. That wool sock found its friend down the corridor. Now the poor boy was faced with the reality of his feet covered in soggy bandages.

Earlier, when Carter had changed them, the Sergeant said it was best to let them air out a little before the next change. Otherwise, the germs would just fester on the skin.

James wasn't sure of the best way to remove the bandages, so he just tore at them. They came away like tissue paper. Soon there was a nice pile of old bandages beside his swollen, scab-covered feet.

They looked a little discolored, and James tried to wiggle his toes to test the damage. All responded; though some better than others. That was good at least. No damage there. He turned his left foot over to see the gash mark from the rock along with other smaller cuts. He ran his finger down the middle of the bottom of his foot and sighed. These weren't the feet of a dancer. His director would laugh at him if he ever returned to France. Not to mention the shape, or lack of, his legs were in. While they marched in the snow for days, the lack of nutrients prevented any muscle from forming. He'd need to start training every day if he ever wanted to be back in shape again.

_Why not start now? _James thought mindlessly. No one was here to see him anyways. And in his head he could hear the music almost perfectly. Mathieu had made sure of that by playing into all hours of the night.

A smile formed on his lips at the thought of Mathieu. How earnestly the other tickled that ivory or strummed with the finest horse hair. Hungarian Dance No. 5 came to his mind. Mathieu loved playing that for James to practice to. Every note rang crystal clear in his ears as he stood to begin the dance. He knew how to work around the pointe parts of the dance, so that was one hurdle taken care of. What was a little trickier was dancing on fresh deer legs.

Memory told him how to stand, move his legs, and where to place his arms, but muscles seemed lost in entropy. The graceful movements he was accustomed to jumbled together into jerky spins and wobbly stances. Leaps were well out of the question.

Though James pushed himself through till the very last note. The music swelled in his ears before crashing down into the dénouement of the piece, which usually ended with a tight spin. However, James' legs gave out from underneath him and he toppled into a set of empty crates. His head hit the wall, and little stars twinkled above. Every muscle in his legs screamed in agony just like the first time he tried to dance a full piece without stretching. Though this searing pain was not what brought tears to his eyes.

James slowly pushed himself up to his knees and hung his head. Wet spots formed on the ground below him. A little rain shower formed that soon turned into a flood. James placed his hands over his head and screamed until his lungs were red raw.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Another Monday update because I will be out the house again Tuesday. Also, due to school, the story will be updating on Saturdays _only._ There will be no Friday update this week because that's when I move in.**


	10. Chapter 10

Crickets chirped noisily in the silent night as Newkirk opened the door to his workstation. The measurements for James sat on the edge of table next to the bolts of fabric. Because James was so small, the Brit had to draw up new patterns. The only silver lining the cynic found was that he wouldn't use too much paper.

Newkirk worked silently and quickly, trying to get as much done before lights out. Using any form of light after lights out was against the rules, and if the Krauts saw even a firefly outside your window, it was a good day in the cooler for you. Luckily for the Brit, he sketched the pattern with ease and cut it out before Schultz came in with his usual order. Newkirk flipped his lamp off and waited a few minutes before turning it back on to give him just that smidge of light. Eye strain wasn't good for an RAF pilot, but he wouldn't be flying a plane any time soon.

He started with the simpler pieces first such as the pants. For one it warmed him up for the night and for two it made his progress look better. He lit a cigarette and let it hang out the side of his mouth as he worked.

After a while Newkirk always found himself in a kind of rhythmic trance. He may not have a sewing machine, but by god if he didn't act like one. Probably why Hogan never asked London to send one over. Why waste resources on something they didn't need? The Brit snorted at the thought. Sure, they didn't technically _need _it. Would be nice to have though.

Newkirk pulled the cigarette out of his mouth before killing it in an ash tray. Just then, the door to his office opened, and James popped his head in. The kid's face was swollen and puffy. Christ, this kid could stop any drought.

"What?" Newkirk asked, his voice gruff.

James chewed on his lower lip before responding, "I-I couldn't sleep."

"Did LeBeau give you the rickety bed? You can have mine for the night then," Newkirk said turning back to his work.

"It's not that. In fact, Colonel Hogan said I could still sleep on his bottom bunk if I wanted." James opened the door a little more to squeeze his lithe frame in. He leaned on it to close it behind him and stood there. "I just couldn't sleep."

Newkirk sighed and nodded to another chair. Babysitting was not his favorite job, but he did like the kid. And Lord knew James needed a friend or two right now. James obliged and took the seat across from Newkirk. He still wore the long coat, yet underneath now he had a different button-up shirt and green pants. The pink triangle probably met its maker in a fire.

"I heard LeBeau found you face first in some crates," Newkirk started, thinking it best to make conversation. "What's all that about, mate?"

With a quick glance at the boy's face, the Corporal saw a soft pink color rise to his cheeks. There was silence before James answered him and explained he was dancing. "Or, trying to dance. I'm out of practice."

The older man tsked and pulled out a pin from the fabric. "Should be taking it easy, guvnor. Especially after downing half a jar of jam."

James' pink cheeks turned a soft red. "Sorry, but it's been so long since I had anything like it."

Newkirk smirked and set his sewing down. The fabric caught on the splinters in the wood. Thick, brown wool would fight off any German snowstorm. If it didn't all unravel on the table that is. "So, you really were a ballet dancer?" he asked.

James nodded. "My mother had an interest in it and taught me the basics. I never really took it seriously until I moved to France to join the Poplars."

"Moved to France in the middle of a war?" Newkirk asked, a hint of disapproval in his voice.

"No, this was before the war. Though it did start soon after I moved. I thought France was safe." James looked at the cloth and started picking at some fuzz on the pants. "Never imagined it would get raided. Much less I would become a German prisoner."

Newkirk pulled the pants close to him to keep the kid from messing with the wool. "How'd you go about getting caught for, er, you know." The last part he muttered out. It wasn't common where he was from for the likes of James to be vocal about it.

"Being a homosexual?" James filled in. "I wasn't yelling it from the roof top. I was performing in a…a man's club. Like dinner theatre. Everyone in there was arrested."

"And you've been a prisoner ever since?" James nodded in response. Newkirk shook his head. "It's rubbish. Absolute rubbish. I can't wait till the Allies win this war and we can all go back to minding our own business."

"You really think the Allies can win?" James asked.

Newkirk looked up at the lad and saw the boy's gaze stared blankly at his feet. The Brit set down his sewing before snapping to get James' attention. "What's gotten into your head? Of course the Allies will win!"

James shrugged. "All I've seen for the past three years is the German military. And even if the war ends, what's there to return to? I've seen countless villages ruined; lives destroyed. You can't tell me you can just pick up where you've left off with your life, Newkirk."

Newkirk set his jaw. The kid had the stuffing beat out of him too much. And too much German propaganda. "Well, no, but anything is better than this bloody war, innit? Maybe we can't pick up right at the time our draft papers came in, but we can start again."

"What did you do then? Were you a farmer or shop keeper or school teacher?"

The Brit smirked before going back to his sewing. These pants were taking longer than expected. "An entertainer of sorts. A magician one day, a pickpocket the next."

James chuckled and shook his head. His chair squeaked as he shifted his weight on it. He bounced the toes of his boot on the floor before stating, "I could never go back to dancing. I tried today and well…you know what happened."

"Oh rubbish," Newkirk responded. "You're just out of practice. Not to mention your feet are all banged up."

"Maybe but-"

"And with a attitude like that, you will never dance again. You gotta have time to heal, mate. In the meantime, you could also learn a new trade." The Corporal scooted his chair closer to the other and turned the pants around so James could see the seam. "Do you know how to sew?" Newkirk asked.

James shook his head.

"Alright. There's nothing to it, really," he said as he cut the thread where he was at and tying the seam off. He held the needle between his index finger and thumb. The little piece of metal glinted in the low light. The eye of it was barely visible. Newkirk rolled off a bit of thread from the spool and straightened it with his mouth. "Hold it," he ordered, referencing the needle.

Cautiously, James took the tiny piece of metal and held it like Newkirk had. Then the Brit held the needle above where James had his fingers and with the other hand he threaded it. "Not so hard, innit?" he asked. He then grabbed the end of the thread and pulled it back through the needle. "Now you try."

The boy took the thread, feeling it sink into the pads of his thumb. The needle gently shook in his hand as he brought the thread up to the eye. With the precision of a half-blind surgeon, James pushed the thread forward, splitting the thread between the needle and eye. Newkirk chuckled and shook his head. "Not so rough, mate," he instructed, taking the needle and thread back. He used his mouth to straighten out the thread again before placing it in the needle.

Newkirk handed the needle back to James, but this time kept his hand over the others. A mix of mentor-ship and wanting to keep the hand steady came over him. He also gave James the thread before grabbing his hand to ease the thread through the needle. "See? Not so hard, eh?" he said.

"You did most of it," James shrugged, setting the needle down on the table.

"Fine. I'll meet ya half way. We did it," Newkirk replied, picking the needle up and tying one end. "Want to learn how to make a seam?"

He shook his head and pushed himself up from the table. "I think I'm ready for bed. But thank you. It was nice talking to you," James said, heading to the door.

"No problem, mate. Any time," the Corporal said around a new cigarette. "And James," he added, causing the kid to turn around, "you will dance again."


	11. Chapter 11

With the move edging closer and closer, James had a busy morning. First, Carter set up the camera and took his picture for the fake ID cards and passport. Then Newkirk called the kid in for a fitting of what was finished of the clothes. They fit well enough considering James was a practical skeleton. Finally, Colonel Hogan walked the boy through the map of the route leading to the sub that would pick him up in the Netherlands.

"Think you can manage the trip?" the Colonel asked, wrapping the map up.

James nodded. "I've been getting my strength back bit by bit."

"Good. You'll need every ounce of it." Hogan shoved the map into a footlocker for safe keeping. "One more night here and then you'll be on your way."

Worms crawled around in James' stomach. The day he had dreamed of for so long was almost here. He wrapped his arms around himself to keep from throwing up.

Colonel Hogan squeezed his shoulder before heading towards the door. He still had duties to attend to. Prior to reaching the door, however, LeBeau pushed it open with Kinch in toe. He held the "kettle" which doubled as a radio. James looked up and stood as the Sergeant fiddled with the kettle to hook it up to the wall.

"What's the matter?" Hogan asked, nearly being knocked down by Carter and Newkirk.

"I was sweeping the porch when I heard Klink get a call on the phone," Newkirk explained. "I heard him say something about an escaped prisoner and thought he might be talking about our friend."

The James' color puddled at his feet. Calling only meant one thing; they wanted to search the camp. Soon there would be that god-awful rumbling truck coming through the gates. James could almost hear it if it wasn't for a panicked voice coming through the speaker of the kettle.

"-Yes, I've asked the camp's senior prisoner to keep an eye on his men for any sign of disease," the disembodied voice said. That must be Klink.

There was a pause and James asked, "Can we not hear what's on the phone?"

Kinch shook his head. "Tapping it would be too risky. Besides, it was enough trouble bugging Klink's office."

Hogan held up his hand to silence the Sergeant as Klink's voice came back. "I assure you, Major, there is no need for a visit. If there was, I would- Yes, Major. Yes, I know it can be hard to spot certain things. Yes, tomorrow will be fine." They exchanged the usual ending before Kinch turned off the radio.

James felt his fingers start to shake, followed by his hands leading up to his arms. Major Klaus was coming here. Undoubtedly accompanied by Captain Marx. They'd take command of this camp before Klink knew what hit them. Every inch of the barracks would be searched. James placed his head in his hands to try and block the images of their shiny black boots stopping in front of the bed he hid under. They'd flip it before dragging him out to the front yard and shooting him.

The gun shot still rang in his ears as Newkirk shook James back to reality. His vision blurred a little before registering that he was still in Colonel Hogan's quarters and sitting on the bed, not lying under it. Every soldier stared at him; their eyes expectant. "What?" he asked, unsure of the information they wanted.

"Who called Colonel Klink?" Hogan asked, arms folded in front of his chest.

"M-Major Klaus. He's in command of us prisoners. And he's p-probably bringing C-Ca-Captain Marx with him."

"What are these men like?" Hogan questioned.

"R-Ruthless. They'd let a man die in the snow sooner than help him up. Th-They aren't like Schultz or…or really any other German I've met. Th-They're horrible…" James felt his vision fuzz and that ringing in his ears again. Before any image could materialize, however, he shook his head and squeezed Newkirk's hand.

Newkirk squeezed back slowly and Colonel Hogan pressed on, "How thorough are these men?"

"They'd tear these barracks apart nail by nail," James replied. "They have a perfect record just like Klink."

"Couldn't James just hide in the tunnel?" Carter asked.

Hogan shook his head as he answered, "Yeah, but what's to stop them from stumbling upon something they shouldn't? Like our maps or radios or guns?"

Everyone went silent.

"Is there nothing Klink can do about it? I mean, what right do those Krauts have searching another man's camp?" Newkirk finally chimed in. James had a death grip on his hand.

"Not when he thinks there's some kind of disease going around…" James looked up at Colonel Hogan and saw the gears turning in his head. A light bulb clicked on and a small smile spread across Colonel's face. "Men, I think Klink needs to know about a little outbreak."

"What kind of outbreak?" Kinch questioned.

"Pink eye," replied the officer. "Easy to catch, spread, and fake. Carter, whip something up that'll make the men look ill. Kinch, tell London everything is still a go. Finally, Newkirk, LeBeau, get James ready for Germany. Can't have him freaking out every time someone says guten morgen to him."

James caught a glimpse of slight contempt in Colonel Hogan's eyes. James swallowed a lump that swelled in his throat. The Colonel was noticing his spells.


	12. Chapter 12

"Is Klink able to see me?" Colonel Hogan asked Helga as he entered the Commandant's hut.

"Whether he is or isn't has never really bothered you, Colonel Hogan," Helga mused.

"You know me so well," Hogan hummed, opening Klink's. "Hi, Colonel Klink."

"Did I say you could come in?" Klink asked, crumpling the paper he was writing on.

Hogan took a seat and shook his head. "I just wanted to talk to you, sir," he said in an innocent.

Klink sneered and set his pen down. "I'm very busy, Colonel Hogan. Tomorrow, two men are coming to inspect the camp," he said. "Which reminds me, you better have your men on their best behavior." He jabbed a finger in Hogan's direction.

"What for?" Hogan asked, folding his arms. "You really should stop letting every Tom, Dick, and Harry in here, sir. This is a prison camp, not a military parade."

"They're coming here about that escaped prisoner I told you about earlier. You know, the one with the disease. I'd rather they come and take him away before we have an epidemic here."

"Well that's all fine and good, but they may be a little late," Hogan said.

Klink smiled, his mind slowly processing the English he'd been fed. "See, I knew you would—wait what? A little late for what?" the German asked, bracing himself against the desk.

"There's been an outbreak of pink eye in my barracks. Three of my men are already sick in bed, and two more are showing symptoms of it."

"You let that disease ridden criminal into the barracks?!" Klink accused, pushing himself up from his desk.

Colonel Hogan stood up as well, ready to defend himself and push this conversation into the right direction. "No, of course not. I don't like my men getting sick any more than you do. It's a coincidence."

"Coincidence? That's an awfully convenient coincidence," Klink said. His lips were twisted into a frown so sour it could rival a lemon.

"Well do you want to search our barracks? Touching things that could just be crawling with pink eye?" Klink thought about it for a moment before shaking his head. "And I'm sure whoever is coming tomorrow wouldn't want to either. So I propose you quarantine my barrack until the men are better and move the healthy ones temporarily. I'll tell my healthy men to line up outside for inspection."

Klink shook his head in disbelief. "How can I trust you, Colonel Hogan?"

"If you want to send your men in there to search before the others get here, be my guest. Just don't blame me if they call in sick the next day," Hogan replied.

The German waved his hand. "Alright, fine. Move every healthy body to barrack number four."

"Thank you, Commandant. I'll remember the times like this after the Allies win the war."

Klink stomped his foot on the ground to dismiss Hogan. The American gave a half-hearted salute before exiting the man's office. "How did it go?" Helga asked, finalizing the letter to Berlin she was typing.

"Oh, the usual."

Colonel Hogan walked outside and saw his crew sitting by a wash basin. He strolled over with his hands shoved in his pants pockets. Why did it have to be so damned cold? Couldn't wars take place in the spring and summer?

"Any good news?" Kinch asked. He leaned himself against the wall of the barrack watching LeBeau and Newkirk tend to the clothes. Carter stood next to the Sergeant while hanging clothes on a line.

"Klink bought it hook, line, and sinker. Carter, have you had any time to generate our little outbreak?"

"Oh, yes sir. I mixed together some paint to make the eyes look puffy and their noses red," Carter replied.

"Good. Just make sure it doesn't actually hurt them," Colonel Hogan warned. "Newkirk, LeBeau, what's the progress on getting our friend adjusted to German life?"

"We thought maybe we could take him out to the pub in town tonight so he could rub elbows with some Krauts," Newkirk suggested. He let the shirt he was washing sink into the water while he dried his hands. His fingers shriveled like prunes doing this work. The chill didn't help but to turn them into ice sickles.

Colonel Hogan shook his head, dismissing the idea. "No, too risky. Not on the eve of two German officers about to visit the camp. Klink will tighten security for sure."

"We could always introduce Schultz to him," LeBeau mused. "I doubt he would mention it to Klink."

"What if he does? Our plans would be all for not," Carter worried.

"Easy. Bribe him. They say the best way to a man's heart is through his stomach. That goes double for Schultz," LeBeau answered.

Hogan nodded his head in agreement. A bumbling Kraut would probably be the easiest on James anyways. Not to mention Schultz cared more about his position as a guard than he did the reputation of the camp. "Alright then, men. Once you're all done with the washing, help me begin quartining off our barrack and moving to barrack four. Can't have those Krauts sticking their noses where they don't belong."


	13. Chapter 13

James hoisted up some rolled-up sheets through the hole in the floor. Colonel Hogan had said he didn't need to help, but the kid felt like he owed it the men. This was work they wouldn't have to do if he wasn't here. "Is that the last of it?" Carter asked, wiping his forehead. James looked down the hole and nodded.

James pulled himself up to sit on the floor of the new barrack and asked, "How long do you guys plan on sleeping in here?"

"Just a few nights. Enough so Klink thinks the other men really had pink eye," Hogan explained. "You should be getting back to the other barrack, by the way. Don't need any of the Krauts to spot you."

"Right, sir," James said, sliding onto the ladder. "Tomorrow night, Colonel Hogan, you're sure?"

"Tomorrow night. We wouldn't let you down," Hogan replied, tipping his hat. The boy nodded before descending the ladder. Colonel Hogan closed the panel when the boy dropped to the ground. James followed the torches attached to the dirt walls down to the main room. He took a turn to the ladder attached to the false bunk and knocked twice. The bunk went right up, and James climbed out.

Five men laid in bed, all with pink stuff around their eyes and red stuff on their noses. They were no worse for wear, however, as many were either smoking or reading. James nodded to them as he went to LeBeau at the oven. A sweet, hearty smell wafted from it which caused James' stomach to gurgle.

"Excusez-moi," James said, holding his stomach with one arm.

LeBeau chuckled and looked up at him. "Don't worry, mon ami. That is exactly the sound I want to hear," the Frenchman said, closing the oven to let whatever it was continue to bake.

The boy smiled and sat down at the table. LeBeau was even easier going than Mathieu.

Newkirk pushed open the door with his boot causing everyone to jump. The loud bang brought James back to reality.

"Newkirk," hissed LeBeau, "what are you doing making such a racket?"

"I come bearing gifts," he said, setting down a box with a large red cross on it. "You can guess who it's from." The Brit popped off the lid to reveal an assortment of medicine, food, masks, and warm clothing. James pulled out an especially nice piece of bread and examined it.

"You're not scamming the Red Cross, are you?" James asked as the other men gathered round to have a look in the box.

"Nope. Old Klink must have reported he has five sick men and the Red Cross took it upon themselves to send this as a special delivery."

"They move that fast?" James wondered, setting the bread back in the box. At least one good thing came out of him being here.

LeBeau turned away from his cooking long enough to see if there were any useful ingredients. There was not, so he went back to the oven to watch his bake. "They will do anything to prevent an outbreak," he hummed.

Couldn't blame them there. Germs were against everyone. It could really hinder the war effort and slow it to a crawl. More people, soldiers and civilians, would die.

"What are the masks for?" James asked, pulling one out. It had four strings, two on each side, top and bottom. They looked like surgical mask.

Newkirk grabbed one and started to tie it around his face. "It's so we don't catch what they got. Here," the Brit threw one at LeBeau. The white cloth bounced off the man's red hat. The Frenchman cursed in his native tongue, those words James knew quite well, before bending down and picking it up.

Blue eyes casted a curious glance at Newkirk. The men weren't really sick, so why did they need the mask? He was about to set the mask on the table when Newkirk sprung up and took it from him. "You got to act the part, mate. Schultz will be here any minute," he explained, tying it around the boy's face.

A muffled "Schultz?!" came from the young man's mouth. That blubbering man was going to come here? Surely that meant James needed to hide. He'd go for under a bunk or something. Once Newkirk finished tying the mask, James stood up only to be pushed back down by a surprisingly strong Newkirk. "I-I-I have to hide," the boy said, clenching and unclenching his fist.

"Not before you get acquainted with old Schultzie," Newkirk said, pressing down on his shoulders so the kid stayed in one place.

"He'll turn me in."

"No, he won't. Not with the threat of the Russian front out there and the promise of strudel in here," LeBeau assured him, taking the pastry out of the oven just as there was a knock on the door. "Speaking of the devil."

It felt like a cannon ball thumped inside James' chest. Every beat hurt and produced more and more sweat. The mask felt like silicone over his face. His skin burned. Didn't they know this meant a date with the firing squad?

"Bonjour, Sergeant Schultz," LeBeau greeted, allowing the man access inside the barrack. Schultz squeezed in through the door and looked around the room.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice. "Colonel Hogan said he was quarantining this barrack!"

"He is, but someone has to make sure these men don't get any worse. LeBeau and I volunteered," Newkirk said, taking a seat beside James.

The dancer sat like a statue hoping that if he didn't move, Schultz wouldn't notice him. Even with a mask, being spotted by a German guard guaranteed some form of punishment. As much as James wanted to run and never look back, he had to trust Newkirk and LeBeau.

Schultz looked around the barrack once more before going over to the cooling pastry LeBeau had set on top of the oven. "Is that strudel?" the man asked, pointing to the tin. He took a big whiff which blew his balloonish frame up more. He let out a sigh of pure delight and gave LeBeau a look a toddler gives fresh baked cookies. "Can I have some?"

LeBeau smiled and patted Schultz on the back. "Of course! You're our favorite guard. But only a small piece. Have to save some for our men," the Frenchman hummed, taking out a small butter knife from a drawer. Other than James' pounding heart, all that could be heard was the knife cutting the flaky crust. LeBeau set the thin slice down on a metal plate before bringing it over and setting it down on the table in front of the seat across from James. Schultz clapped his hands and rubbed them together before sitting down to enjoy the German delicacy.

If it wasn't for the slight dent every few minutes in James' surgical mask, you wouldn't be able to tell he breathed. Just a few mere inches of table separated the boy from a Kraut.

Blue eyes scanned every inch of the other's large body. He ate like a pig with a gut to match. The Germans had enough food to get fat but not enough to keep prisoners from starving.

The thought of food made James' stomach growl again and LeBeau cut three more slices. He set one plate down in front of James, one in front of Newkirk, and the other he set in front of the seat beside Schultz. The German guard was practically licking the plate by the time everyone at the table had something. He looked lazily at James and Newkirk for a second before his eyebrows shot into his helmet.

"Wh-Who is that?" he asked, jumping away from the table. James' nails dug into the wood. Ten deep marks signed his name.

LeBeau was quick to catch the fat guard and keep him from running out the door. "He's just visiting, Schultz, you know how it goes," the Corporal said, trying to pull the man back down to sit.

"B-B-But he isn't supposed to be here! I must tell Colonel Klink at once," protested the German. James could already picture it; Schultz would leave and come back with Klink and another guard. Then James would be detained and held until the Captain and Major arrived tomorrow.

He felt his shoulders be gripped tightly by someone and swore it was another guard until a British accent hit his ears, "Aw, you can't do that, mate. How would you explain him to Klink? People sneaking into a prison is almost as bad as people sneaking out."

"Yes, but I must—"

"Y-Y-You can have my strudel," James said, pushing the plate towards the other. His face matched the color of his mask, and his brown hair looked jet black. "I'll be gone b-by tomorrow night. Y-You can ac-act like you never saw me." His voice was barely above a whisper and every muscle looked strained.

Schultz looked at the pastry and back at James. James felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes, and he begged them to stay back until the Kraut left. Seconds felt like hours before the Sergeant grabbed the plate. "Fine. But if I see him again, I will have to report him," Schultz warned the two Corporals. They gave him their word James would be gone by the designated time. With quick goodbyes the man left.

The men stretched and got up from the bed to grab what was left of the strudel. While LeBeau cut each man generous portions, Newkirk helped James into Colonel Hogan's office. The boy's surgical was damp with tears. The Brit shut the door before the dry heaving started.

James ripped the mask off, for it felt like it was suffocating him. He fell on the floor by the bunks. His body curled into its usual position as he hyperventilated into his chest and knees. Newkirk squeezed in next to him, wrapping an arm around the boy's shoulder as he did.

His cheek made contact with the soft, woolen fabric of Newkirk's turtleneck and James lost his composure even more. He buried his face in the man's chest and cried. Burning, fat tears stained the uniform along with the feelings of anguish and fear James had been holding onto. Other, darker, more dangerous emotions left his body too. Anger and pure hatred found their place in the folds of Newkirk's uniform. The want to punch and shoot every German he saw evaporated in the other's arms as he realized it wasn't an entire country he feared; it was only the two men that had caused him the most suffering. Two men that would never be in his life after tomorrow.

When all the water left his body, James started to cough. Newkirk patted his back until the fit was over. His body was exhausted. As he quieted, James fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

A few minutes later, LeBeau entered carrying a kettle and two mugs. He set them down on Hogan's table before going over to help Newkirk. The Brit slowly stood before picking the kid up bridal style and placing him on the bottom bunk of Hogan's bed. The Corporal sighed as he wiped his shirt where James had cried.

"The kid's a ruddy mess," Newkirk said, pouring himself some tea. "If he sees one Kraut out there, he'll blow his cover."

LeBeau fixed himself a cup and hummed. "We shouldn't judge him so hard. It sounds like those officers are as bad as the Gestapo."

"We can't be soft on him like he's a new born fawn either. I hate seeing the bloke like this, but we can't do anything if it's all in his head." Newkirk jabbed at his temples. "And I won't be the one looking like a ruddy queer in front of everyone," the Brit muttered, taking a sip of tea.

The Frenchman gave Newkirk a look crossed between amusement and shock. "So that's what you think of him?" LeBeau asked.

"I can't say it hasn't ran through me mind. Especially when he goes on sobbing."

"Mon ami, he is an artist. I have many friends like him back in Paris. They are sensitive but beautifully skilled." A smile came across the short man's face. Maybe that was why the two got so well. James was like getting a visit from one of his old buddies back home.

Newkirk shook his head and pulled out a cigarette. He struck a match to light it before taking a short drag. "Back home that kind of information was kept secret. If me old man heard I let some sod cry on me, I wouldn't have a bed to return to."

"You think Colonel Hogan or the other men think the same way?" LeBeau inquired.

The Brit didn't answer. He took a long drag of his cigarette and exhaled the smoke. Grey clouds of ash danced in the air before being disintegrated by the light. "I don't know, LeBeau, and I don't really want to find out. 'Cause even after the kid is gone, we have to stay here until the war ends. And I'd rather it be as peaceful as possible." Newkirk tapped his ash onto the floor and inhaled the tobacco once more. The scent that filled his lungs had such a calming effect on him.

"You British and the Americans are so…tight about love and romance," LeBeau mused, swirling the tea around in his cup. "In France, love is free. And no one cares as long as everyone is happy. It also isn't uncommon to try things out."

That earned a belly laugh from Newkirk. The Corporal shook his head and wiped his eyes of tears. If there was even a rumor two blokes fancied each other, they were ostracized for years. "So are ya telling me you've been with a man?" Newkirk asked, a rascal smile spread across his face.

The Frenchman shrugged. "I don't kiss and tell. But I can say I prefer girls," he replied.

Newkirk shook his head even more and felt the smile fade. LeBeau was not one to lie about something like this. While other men would spin tall tales of nights with beautiful women, LeBeau only ever hinted at the same few stories. "You're not serious, mate?" the British Corporal pressed. "You shagged with a man?"

LeBeau sipped the rest of his tea and shrugged again. "I told you, I don't kiss and tell. But I can assure you, it did not go quite that far." With his cup empty, LeBeau took the kettle and poured himself another. He finished that off in one big gulp before setting the empty cup upside down on the table. "When you're down, put the cups and kettle back in the cupboard. I'm going to bed now. Bonne nuit, mon ami." The Frenchman left, shutting the door softly behind him.

The Brit was left alone in his stupor, quite shocked over the whole ordeal. He'd never guess LeBeau once had a thing with another man. Well, thinking about it, Newkirk understood that wasn't really something you wanted to get out in a camp full of army men.

His gaze shifted to James, who curled up like a baby on the bunk. Was he afraid of the men here as well as the Germans? Newkirk knew he'd be terrified of such an…affliction if he was in a prison camp.

Thoughts from last night slowly came back to him. How James had helped him with the sewing and how downtrodden the boy had been. Also, the mention of being unable to sleep. This was probably one of the better sleeps the boy had had in a long time. And it just had to be induced by a severe panic attack. Newkirk cursed himself for thinking it was a good idea without briefing James beforehand. This wasn't the place for shock therapy.

Newkirk grabbed the better blanket from the top bunk and placed it over James'. There was no way the kid could handle the small amount Krauts he'd have to deal with to make it to the sub. Not alone at least.

"I must be losing my bloody head," Newkirk muttered, grabbing the kettle and cups. Tomorrow morning he'd talk to Hogan about it.


	15. Chapter 15

The service car rumbled through the barbed wire gate. Captain Marx pulled the vehicle up in front of the Commandant's office where Klink waited for them on the porch. The balding man clasped his hands together before opening the door on Major Klaus' side then Captain Marx's. Both men sported red arm bands carrying the swastika and pistols attached to their hip. Eagle eyes scoured the camp, and the prisoners lined up.

"Welcome to Stalag 13," Klink greeted, a toothy grin on his face. "We are the most efficient prison camp in all of Germany. Not one escape in over 200 attempts."

The Captain rolled his eyes while the Major placated the Colonel. "Thank you, Colonel Klink. We've heard of your record," Klaus said, nodding to the man. "We hold a similar record, which we would like to keep. Now, as we discussed on the phone, my Captain and I would like to search every inch of this camp."

"Of course, Major. My men are at your disposal," Klink assured.

"That won't be necessary. My Captain and I have found the average guard can be quite…careless. We would prefer to search the camp ourselves," the Major replied, removing his gloves.

Klink gulped, causing his Adam's apple to bob up and down. "Of course, Major. I just have to warn you—"

A prisoner interrupted Klink by sauntering up to the two German officers. "Good morning, Major, Captain," the American said, tipping his hat. "Colonel Klink tells me you're looking for an escaped prisoner."

"A _diseased _prisoner," Captain Marx emphasized. "We think he may be hiding here."

"Well, I can assure you both that no one sneaks in or out of here. Klink is too good for that," the man assured the officers.

The officers shared a look and Major Klaus asked, "Colonel Klink, who is this man?"

"He is Colonel Hogan, the senior prisoner of this camp. And he was just about to get back into formation," Klink replied, sneering in Hogan's direction.

Colonel Hogan stayed, however, and proceeded on, "I just thought these two officers wouldn't mind a personal tour of the camp. I could share the wonderfully awful times my men and I have had, and you two could search to your heart's content."

The Major smirked and cracked his knuckles. They were worn knobs from the cold and years of service. "Thank you, Colonel Hogan, but as I told Klink, we prefer to search on our own."

"As you wish, Major. Just let me know if me or my men could be of any assistance," Hogan said before going back to stand in line with his men.

Major Klaus eyed the men and particularly how they stood. There were five noticeable gaps in the line. There was no report of five men dropping dead. Something else was afoot. "Colonel Klink," the Major started.

"Yes?"

"I see you are missing five men in your line up. Where are they?"

"Oh, there's been an outbreak of pink eye. I tried to explain—"

"A sudden outbreak of pink eye?" Major Klaus questioned. Captain Marx's hand rested coolly on his pistol.

"Y-Yes. Colonel Hogan came to me yesterday with the complaint. We had to quarantine them in barrack two and move the rest of the men to barrack four."

"You didn't think this suspicious?" Captain Marx asked.

Colonel Klink shook his head and answered, "No, I mean, yes, but Colonel Hogan assured me that he would never let a diseased prisoner near his men."

Captain Marx opened his mouth to continue to interrogate Klink, but the Major held up his hand. They needed no more information to know something was up. Klaus informed the Commandant that they would begin making their rounds and waved his Captain forward. In a low voice he said to the other, "Check their arms. The rat could be hiding amongst them." Captain Marx nodded and marched up to the line of soldiers.

It was clear to the Major that Colonel Klink still believed this to be a disease of the body and not one of the soul. Colonel Hogan's beliefs were another matter. The Captain had similar thoughts as he started grabbed the soldier's wrist and pushing up their sleeves. There were many protests about it until Hogan told his men to pipe down. When the Captain came to a particularly surly man in an RAF uniform, the Brit asked him if he lost his livestock. That earned a glare from their Colonel.

Marx found no brands or cover ups on any of the men. That didn't mean, however, that the five missing men weren't Foster. "Clear!" the Captain called, waving the Major over. The Major walked over, mulling over the next course of action in his head. They needed to see the quarantined barrack, however, they were here to catch a pink triangle, not pink eye.

"Colonel Hogan, we need to inspect barrack two. Do you have any protection equipment my colleague and I could use?" Klaus asked the American, certain the Red Cross must have sent something.

"Of course. Newkirk, LeBeau, fetch these two officers the supplies from last night's delivery," the Colonel ordered. A Brit and Frenchman replied and hurried off to another set of barracks. The Englander looked like the same one that gave Captain Marx trouble only a few seconds ago. _Klink should train them better._

The Corporals came back carrying a large, white crate with a red cross painted on the side. The contents had clearly been used, but what the two officers needed were still inside: surgical masks. They took them out and tied them around their faces. Now they could enter the barrack without catching anything unwanted.

Major Klaus went in first with Captain Marx close behind. The Captain shut the door as they stood in the middle of the barrack. Five men laid in different bunks with their eyes closed. Captain Marx inspected the men in the same manner he had outside. One man opened his eye to reveal a small buildup of pus and redness. This caused Marx to jerk away, not wanting to get infected.

"I don't think that Hogan is making this pink eye business up," the Captain commented as he walked up to the Major. Like outside, no one in here had a brand on their arm nor any trace of make-up.

"Maybe not, but I am still curious on what exactly _is _going on. Let's hurry up in here, though. No use getting sick ourselves," Klaus said, going over to look under the bunks. Marx nodded before going to the officer's quarters. He looked inside the footlocker, cupboard, and under the bunk yet found no trace of the prisoner.

The German officers exited the barrack and peeled off the surgical mask. "Dispose of these," ordered Klaus, throwing the mask at the Brit. The soldier frowned as the man continued, "We will search the other barracks now. You are all to stay out here until the search in completed. If you happen to, as they say, 'get fresh', Captain Marx has orders to shoot you where you stand."

The soldiers said nothing while their eyes held contempt for the officers. It brought a grin to Major Klaus' face. Rats needed to learn their place.

The officers slowly made their way through the barracks leaving no stone unturned. They even went as far as to check the cooler and solitary. Nothing came up. Major Klaus could see the content look on Hogan's face a mile away. He cursed under his breath and ushered the Captain away from prying eyes.

"What do we do now, Major?" Marx asked, folding his arms. "We've checked every Stalag on the way here and have found nothing. It's possible the boy is dead and rotting."

"Maybe but that would still qualify as a successful escape," spat Klaus. "I will not have my record tarnished by some queer. Not to mention I think that Colonel Hogan is taking us for a ride."

"What do you want to do about it, sir?"

The Major cracked his knuckles and neck. What can one do about a pest problem this big? "Marx," Klaus started, "inform Colonel Klink that we will be staying here a few more days just to be sure the prisoner is neither hiding somewhere in the camp nor is he simply late to the party."

"Yes, sir. Right away," the lower ranking officer said. The Captain marched back to the center of the camp and into Klink's office to tell him the Major's orders. The Major trailed a few yards behind, strolling back to the center of camp.

"Find everything you were looking for, Major?" Colonel Hogan asked, walking up beside him.

"Not exactly, Colonel Hogan, but we do not give up so easily," Klaus explained, giving him a slight smirk. "My Captain is currently informing the Commandant of our plans to stay here for a few more days. This won't be a problem for you I hope."

Hogan returned his smirk with a rather strained one and replied, "Not at all, Major."

"Good. Auf wiedersehen for now," the Major hummed, giving the other a wave.


	16. Chapter 16

"What do you mean you can't move me tonight?" James asked, gripping his knees.

"I mean exactly that. It's too dangerous. Not only do we have those two Krauts skulking around here, Klink also posted more security. Moving tonight is too risky," Colonel Hogan explained, leaning against a bunk.

"Not to mention you still can't see an officer without fainting," Newkirk added.

James ignored the Brit and pressed on with Hogan. "There has to be something you can do."

"There is. Kinch," Hogan turned towards the Sergeant, "get London on the radio and tell them the package will be delayed. Ask them how much time they can spare."

"On it, Colonel," the man said, going over to a fake sink covering a hole in the floor and disappearing within seconds.

James exhaled deeply and mashed his thumbs together. Stuck here another night with those officers roaming wherever they pleased. Sooner or later someone would be careless while the officers were being cautious. While he knew now was not the time to be taking unnecessary risk, James couldn't help but feel more anxious by the minute.

A hand slapped him on the back, causing him to jump. Newkirk's face stared at him with that inviting grin. "Come on now, don't look so out of it. We'll get you to London. We just gotta do it safely," he said.

"He's right. Those Krauts aren't messing around out there," Hogan agreed, eyes glancing towards the door, guarded by LeBeau.

"I know that. I was their prisoner, remember?" James shook his head at the memories. The truly awful ones were locked far away with the key buried even deeper. Newkirk told him the comment that was made while their arms were checked which did produce a smile from the boy. That kind of back talk could find the Brit in a lot of trouble though.

"Yeah, I haven't forgotten," Hogan said. "I'd like to do a little more to their arms then brand them. But we have to stay focused. Right now, all we can do is try and get you Kraut ready. Newkirk and LeBeau told me what happened last night."

James was quick to jump to his own defense, "If they had told me Schultz would be there, I would have prepared for it!"

Hogan sighed and shook his head. "That's the problem. You can't prepare for every German you may meet. You're just gonna have to get over your fear."

James felt a mix of anger and frustration well in his chest. Didn't the Colonel understand that if he could get over this he would? Not like he enjoyed being hauled off into another room or being the center of attention. His fist clenched in his lap and he hung his head. Arguing with the Colonel would only make matters worse.

"Colonel, may I suggest something?" the Brit pipped in,"One of us could escort him to the sub. Ya know, make sure he gets there alright and doesn't blow his cover."

Blue eyes shot open to the size of marbles. Colonel Hogan quickly shut the idea down. "It's one thing for an unknown man to sneak out and not be missed. It's another for one of the longest prisoners here to sneak out and not return for a few days."

"Oh, come on, Colonel Hogan. It's a sure-fire way he'll get to the submarine," Newkirk pushed.

James swallowed a lump in his throat. While someone helping him in this final leg of the journey sounded nice, he already put them through so much. This was an unneeded risk. "Newkirk, even if you went with me, there's nothing to stop a panic attack from happening. And Schultz won't be able to hide the fact you're gone for however long it takes."

"He's right," Hogan agreed. "The kid will have to go alone."

Newkirk chuckled and shook his head. "You think I'd make such a request without having a plan already in mind?" he asked, folding his arms and setting his elbows on the table. "I thought it out last night. I could get thrown in solitary for a few days; just long enough to get James there and me back here. The only time I'll be checked on is for food, and even then, someone can sneak in and eat it in me place."

The corners of the Colonel's mouth twitched up. The plan didn't sound too terrible after all. "Alright, but what about the Krauts? An escort won't be any good if he falls out," Hogan noted. James couldn't argue with him there. A grown man afraid of another German? Unheard of.

Newkirk's smile stretched across his whole face, showcasing his slightly yellow teeth. "You're gonna be right proud of me, sir. We put some bandages over his eyes, say he got wounded in the war, and I'm his guide. He won't be able to see the Krauts and the blokes will probably take pity on him!"

"Newkirk, remind me again why you've never had officer training?" Hogan asked.

"I'm a criminal, sir," the Brit replied.

As the Colonel and Corporal began to think of ways to get Newkirk thrown in solitary for a few days, James was left to sit there, stunned. This went above and beyond the rumors he had heard. And there was no way he could let the other do something so selfless for him. The conversation got louder when the soldiers hit upon something they couldn't agree on and James placed his arm between them. A bit of his brand showed from his sleeve. That quieted the two men enough so that James could say, "I appreciate the lengths you're all willing to go for me, but I can't accept such a generous offer. I'll go on my own and if I'm captured, I'm captured. There's no use endangering yourselves for no reason."

Hogan and Newkirk let out a sigh in unison. "You know, as soldiers, that's our job, right? In the field or in here, we're always endangering ourselves. And trust me, we've done riskier things than simply going across Germany," Hogan said.

Of course that would be their answer. Stupid. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, isn't that what they always say? "Sorry, Colonel. I-I was just…I've felt like such a burden these past few days…"

"Burden? Why, you've been better than most of the guest we have," Newkirk said. "They're always so gung-ho about things. Makes a mess." James chuckled. He knew that Newkirk was just joking to make him feel better, but he couldn't help but laugh.

"Does the plan sound good to you, James?" Hogan asked.

"Yes, Colonel," the boy answered, a nervous smile on his face.

"Excellent. Once Major Klaus and Captain Marx leave our lovely abode, we'll work on getting you out of here."


	17. Chapter 17

For three days Major Klaus and Captain Marx inspected the camp. Not only that, but they did random barrack calls, once almost finding James in the process. It made doing their regular job impossible. And their time to move James was running thin. With what little they could get from London, the boys in the submarine were getting impatient. If they couldn't move soon, the James would be stuck in Stalag for at least another month. Colonel Hogan wasn't going to allow that.

During the prisoner's lunch time, Hogan decided he'd have a chat with the Commandant. When Klaus and Marx weren't turning over the camp, they were in Klink's office. Since barrack two was still being used as a quarantine cite, the soldiers couldn't listen to Klink's office with the kettle. All this annoyed the American to no end as he knocked on the door. Stupid Kraut vermin.

"What?!" Klink called, prompting Hogan to step in. Major Klaus and Captain Marx stood from their chairs as the man entered. He held up his hand to calm them, but they stayed standing. "What is it, Colonel Hogan? Can't you see I'm in a meeting," Klink whined, gesturing to the other two.

"You've been in a meeting the last three days. These men have practically taken over the camp," Hogan said, stepping around the officers. "It's doing serious damage to morale."

"These men are just doing their job, Hogan. They are welcomed at Stalag 13 until they find their man," Klink said, waving the American towards the door. "Now out!"

Hogan puffed up his chest and was about to reply when the Major stopped him. "I thought you said us being here wouldn't be a problem, Colonel," the Major hummed. "What's with the sudden change of heart?"

"My men are nervous wrecks. They can't eat, they can't sleep. They think one step out line will find them shot in the foot." It wasn't a complete lie, either. Many of the men changed how they acted around the two officers. Like being back in basic training.

The Major smirked. "As they should feel. Rats should obey and fear their master. And besides, we still haven't caught our man, Colonel. What if he shows up here and begins…infecting your men?"

Hogan set his jaw, and his mind raced with what to do now. Eventually, the officers would leave but not soon enough. And by that point they may tear apart all the barracks. It was a long shot, but they may discover the tunnel system as well. The Colonel couldn't let that happen, so he played the final card he could: appeal to Klink.

"You know, maybe you're right, Major? What if he does show up here? But it isn't either of you who find him. It's Klink," Colonel Hogan said.

"Me?" Klink questioned, gesturing to himself. The Major and Captain exchanged an unpleasant look.

"Yes, you. And you would get all the praise and reward for it too. I can see the papers now, 'Local Commandant Stops Mass Outbreak.'" Hogan turned his back to Klink spread his hands out wide as if showcasing the headline. Klink looked up with a smile wide enough he could catch a fly with it.

Captain Marx cleared his throat, breaking Hogan's delusion. "Colonel Hogan, you are such an optimist. Which is sad because you fail to realize that he is still _our _prisoner, so it will be _us _who gets the credit for catching him and disposing of him properly," Marx explained.

"Oh sure. I bet they'll type that right after they explain how he escaped from you. Maybe even right under the picture of Klink cuffing the guy," Hogan replied.

Marx's hand went to his gun, and Klaus' hand gripped his shoulder. Leather squeaked under his hand as Marx's arm relaxed by his side. "Colonel, I must say you have quite the silver tongue. No matter, however, for we were just about to take our leave. And when we find the boy, we'll be sure to send you the paper with _us _in the picture," the Major said. "Klink, if you see any sign of a sickly brunette with crystal blue eyes, I request you give us a call."

Just as Klink was about to agree, Hogan shook his head. "Now wait a minute. That's not fair. When Klink hands the prisoner over, you two will get all the glory for capturing him."

"Are you just going to stand there and let this prisoner talk for you, Colonel?" Marx asked, itching to pull the trigger.

Klink stomped his foot and yelled Hogan's name. The American hung his head in silence, allowing the Commandant to talk, "I can speak for myself, thank you very much. But I do agree with Colonel Hogan; this is my camp, and I will take it upon myself to capture the prisoner if he steps one foot near here."

"I can't believe this. You—"

Klink cut the Major off, "And I would like it very much if you and Captain Marx would please leave. I will not have my camp be ran by anyone but me."

Captain Marx scoffed as Major Klaus' look could curdle milk. "You'll regret this, Colonel Klink. I'll remember this when I'm a general during the next war." With that, the Major walked out of the office with his captain in toe. From inside, Hogan heard the man calling for his service car and calling off his men.

"Wonderful job, sir," Hogan complimented. "I couldn't have done any better myself."

"You really think so?" Klink asked, his voice giddy. "Well, it comes from years of experience. Now, to let the Gestapo in town know to keep an eye out for the prisoner. Helga!"

Hogan's relaxed posture snapped to attention. Not another set of Krauts. "The Gestapo, sir? Wouldn't that complicate things?"

"It never hurts to have an extra set of eyes, does it?" Klink shrugged, going to the door. Helga stood with a notepad tucked into her elbow, ready to take down the officer's orders. "Helga, get me in touch with the local Gestapo. I would like to employ their services in finding this escaped prisoner."

"Jawohl, Commandant," she replied, scratching the message onto her paper.

Hogan opened his mouth to protest, but Klink dismissed him. A second time and Klink yelled at him to leave his office. The American had no choice but to obey. By the time Hogan walked outside, the two officers were long gone. The only thing hinting at their presence was a set of tire tracks in the snow. The Colonel hung his head as he walked back to the temporary barrack. Everyone rushed to the man as he entered, their eyes twinkling. "How'd it go, Colonel?" Carter asked while everyone held their breath.

Hogan took in a deep breath before stating, "I got good news and bad news. Good news is those two Krauts are officially kicked out of Stalag 13." There came much cheering from the men and James clapped his hands. Hogan waited for the noise to quiet down before he continued, "Bad news is James is now the most wanted man from here to Berlin."


	18. Chapter 18

His words hung in the air like floating feathers. However, they hit the ground like a bowling ball. James jumped from his seat, lines creasing all over his face. "You can't be serious," he said.

"I wish I wasn't. I didn't think Klink would call the Gestapo, and I couldn't stop him. Now we have to get pass them too," Hogan sighed.

James sank back down to his seat, his face the same color as the snow falling outside. "This is just great," he said, rubbing at his temples. "At this rate I won't be leaving here until the war is over." And maybe not even then, depending on who wins.

"Don't despair now. Klink doesn't even know what you look like," Newkirk pointed out, hoping to keep the kid in good spirits. "He doesn't, does he?"

"No. All he has is a basic description which works in our favor," Colonel Hogan replied. "What doesn't is the tightened security. The area around here will be crawling with Krauts. Taking the emergency tunnel may even be too dangerous."

"I'm still gonna get out of here, right, Colonel?" James asked.

The man nodded. "Yes. Even if we have to start playing this by ear. We'll start moving as soon as we can get Newkirk into solitary."

"Already covered, Colonel. LeBeau and I have been practicing a good tussle," Newkirk chimed.

"Good. We'll wait until tomorrow. Klink's already had enough excitement for today. In the meantime, let's get things ready to move back into barrack two." Everyone nodded and the room shifted into action. Men packed things in footlockers and bundled up bedding. Newkirk tapped James on the shoulder and jerked his head towards the bed he had been sleeping in.

The boy stood and went to help Newkirk roll up his bedding. Most men piled their pillow and blanket in the middle so when they pulled off the mattress cover all they had to do was tie it up like a hobo bag. The Brit did this as well and as he lifted the mattress, James grabbed the cover and pulled it up. Then he carefully wrapped the sheet over the pillow and blanket to make a kind of sack.

"Colonel Hogan is pretty bold to start moving back in as soon as Klaus and Marx are gone," James commented as he carried the sack over to the fake sink. Newkirk set it down on its side to reveal the tunnel underneath.

"Not really, mate. Pink eye only last a week or two," Newkirk said, climbing down the ladder. He waited at the bottom with his arms outstretched. James dropped the bundle into the other's hands before going down the ladder.

The two men walked down the gas-lit hall in silence. James noticed all the familiar cracks and chunks of dirt. After living in here for three days, you come to know the tunnels quite well.

They made it to the ladder leading up to barrack two. James climbed up first before lending Newkirk a hand. Along with being stuck in the tunnel system for three days, he started to work up his muscle again by doing light stretches.

Newkirk set his bundle on top of his bunk and unrolled the sack. He lifted the mattress, allowing James room to stuff the edges of the cover under it. With that, Newkirk pushed his pillow to the side closest to the door and smoothed out the blanket. Other men came in through the door and tunnel trying to get the room unquarantined.

"Wanna do a dress rehearsal?" Newkirk asked, pulling the boy out of the way of a soldier carrying a footlocker.

"Sure," he said, weaving his way through the bodies. The door to the back room had been hidden by a large cabinet which held heavy winter coats and boats. Newkirk pushed it to the side using his shoulder before opening the door.

The Brit opened a chest with the completed outfit inside. He laid it out on the table for the other and set the boots on the floor. "I'll wait outside for ya to get changed," he said. James heard the door open and close before he turned around to start putting on the new clothes.

James ran his hand down the jacket and hummed softly. The clothes were so boringly German. Nothing loose or comfy like the clothes he wore in France and America. And everything looked so itchy.

He shrugged off his over-sized coat and let it fall to the floor. At least now he would have clothes that fit him. The ones he wore now were worn clothes from the soldiers. It hung off his thin frame like a child playing dress up. He unbuttoned the shirt and set it down on the stool. His eye caught the corner of the number burned into his skin and he grimaced.

After the war, his muscle would come back and the memories of the prison camp would fade. The image of the faces before him would get cloudy and morph together until they were unrecognizable. But the scar on his arm would never go away. Fade, maybe, if he was lucky, but never would it go back to the soft surface it once was. An unwanted conversation starter like the garish rug in his living room forever reminding him of this time in his life.

James tore his eyes away from the mark and picked up the inner most shirt to start tugging on. Another part of German fashion was that it had more layers than a Victorian dress. He pulled a tank top up over his head and adjusted the straps. It was a little snug which was odd. After months of wearing shirts that fit like dresses, something being snug was unheard of.

A stained, cracked mirror was propped up in a corner of the small room, so James turned to look at himself in it. The last time he had a glimpse of himself in a mirror, he looked younger than in his senior pictures. Now when he looked in the mirror, his cheeks puffed out again framed by a decent jaw. His shoulders also no longer looked like knobby joints but proper hinges. His arms were still on the small side, but they weren't sticks anymore. A little more tid-bits of extra weight clung to his waist and legs.

A small victory the image was, but James felt like he was glowing. Now he didn't look like some malnourished child. Not exactly the standard Airman either, but he had to start somewhere. Recovery was recovery. And in England he'd continue it and start working on dancing again.

When he was done admiring himself in the mirror, James continued putting on his outfit. Everything fit snuggly which didn't bother James too much for he knew the reason. Once he was done, he called Newkirk back in with his arms akimbo to his sides. "Well? What do ya think?" the boy asked, leaning his weight onto one side.

Newkirk pursed his lips and folded his arms over his chest. His critical eyes scanned every inch of thread before he snapped his fingers and exited the room. A couple seconds later he returned with white guaze and started wrapping it around James' head. "Sorry chap but without this we can't get you out of Germany," Newkirk explained.

The room became darker and darker with each new layer until James could barely make out basic shapes. "I'm supposed to escape Germany like this?" the boy questioned, feeling a little light on his feet. Not being able to see really messed with one's balance.

"Do you got a better idea?" Newkirk asked, tying off the bandages. "I'll be by your side every step of the way. Just until we get to the sub." James felt something slip into his coat pocket and shuffled his hand around that area. "I placed your ID card, passport, and discharge papers in there. Fresh from Carter's office. We'll be crossing through the Netherlands to get to the sub, but things will be easier there. Getting out of Germany is the hardest part."

"Won't it be suspicious? A German soldier leaving Germany right after he's been wounded?"

"We'll just tell them there's some fancy doctor in Netherlands or a sweet dame waiting just across the border." The suggestion earned a snort from James. Sure, a dame. That would be the day.

"Now how do I look?" James asked.

"Like a ruddy Kraut," Newkirk joked, patting him on the shoulder. The Brit then started to carefully unwrap the gauze to reuse for when they actually left.

Once James could see clearly again, he slowly started peeling off the layers of German clothing. He placed the wool coat neatly on the table and started to unhook the suspenders. Why did Germans make such complicated outfits?

"What are you gonna do with that trench coat?" Newkirk asked, putting the clothes back in a footlocker.

James looked down and picked it up. It had holes along the collar and stains in various places. The edges had frayed, and two buttons were missing. The tag on the inside had the name Mathieu sewed on it. "I'm holding onto it for someone," James explained, setting it down on the table to be put on again. "They would be mad if I got rid of it."


	19. Chapter 19

The heroes laid low for another day to give Klink time to cool off. Newkirk and LeBeau practiced the fight they would have so it would be unquestionably Newkirk's fault. Couldn't have the wrong man going into solitary. Colonel Hogan gave the two permission to act an hour after lunch. Newkirk and LeBeau nodded. This was it.

The Corporals walked out and stood in front of a few guards. Their pause was due to Newkirk fishing out a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. Before the man put it to his lips, however, LeBeau grabbed him in the crook of the elbow and said, "Hey, got another one to spare, Mon ami?"

Newkirk elbowed him in the chest and pushed him away. "Bugger off," the Brit said, shielding his cigarette from the other.

"Hey, that's not fair! I saw you get an entire pack this morning," LeBeau said, reaching for inside the Brit's coat.

This time Newkirk gave LeBeau a shove hard enough to push him to the ground. "I said bugger off," Newkirk repeated, kicking dirt onto the other. LeBeau cursed at him in French which caused the other to grab him by the collar and start "punching" him in the face. They had practiced it so that from the side, it would look like Newkirk was doing real damage. What was actually happening, however, was that Newkirk was lightly touching the other's cheek with his knuckles to push his face into the ground. The dirt kicked up most of the fuss and would suffice as bruising.

A small crowd of men gathered around the pair, cheering and shouting. This caught the attention of the guards. They shouted at the crowd to move and waved their guns around. As the crowd broke, Newkirk stood up and tossed LeBeau to the ground. The Frenchman curled into a ball, sheltering himself from the Brit. The soldiers pointed their guns at the British Corporal, so he held his hands up. Colonel Klink and Hogan were called over to assess the matter.

"What is it now?" the Commandant complained, stamping his foot into the snow.

"This man was attacking another prisoner, Herr Commandant," one of the soldiers reported. Colonel Hogan pretended to be shocked and called Newkirk's name in a disapproving tone.

"Sorry, sir, but he was trying to steal my cigs," Newkirk explained.

Before Hogan could respond, Klink waved his hand and huffed. "I don't care what he was doing. Now is not the time for rough housing. Thirty days in the cooler!" Klink's fuse was even shorter than usual.

Newkirk gave the Colonel a look. The cooler was a lot harder to sneak out of than solitary. Not to mention the check-ins were more often in case someone started to freeze to death.

"Colonel Klink wait!" the American called, halting the soldiers from taking Newkirk away. "I must protest this punishment. It goes against the Geneva Convention!"

Klink scoffed. "Hogan, when have I ever cared about the Geneva Convention?"

"Well I think this may be the one time you would like to care. Considering how cold it's been, the cooler will be more like a freezer now. One day in there any man would be a popsicle," Colonel Hogan explained.

"So?" Klink asked.

"So that means he's dead," the man spelled out. "And one dead POW is just the gateway to more dead POWs. Which means Allied planes will have no problems bombing Stalag 13."

Klink's monocle nearly dropped into the snow. He called to his men to halt and ordered them to place the Corporal in solitary for a week. Colonel Hogan thanked Klink, and the German officer huffed. As Newkirk was marched to solitary, Hogan helped LeBeau up.

"So far so good, Colonel," LeBeau commented, wiping the dirt off his uniform.

"Yeah, but this wasn't the hard part," Hogan cautioned, not wanting to celebrate too early. They had done dozens upon dozens of escapes, but each one bubbled new anxiety in Hogan's chest. "Come on. We still have preparations to do before tonight." Colonel Hogan nodded to the barracks and the duo started walking over. Through the clouded window they saw Carter and Kinch's face looking out. Hogan tipped his hat with two fingers to signal everything was going to plan.

The men inside relayed this information to James just as Hogan and LeBeau entered. "Are we set to start moving, Colonel?" Kinch asked, ready to radio London.

"Yeah but be careful about it. We don't need to mess up this early in the game," the American warned the other. "LeBeau, get James ready for the move."

"Oui, Colonel," the Frenchman responded. Kinch hit the false bunk and hurried down the ladder. James went to the back room and grabbed the clothes Newkirk had made before hurrying down the ladder as well. LeBeau came last and closed the entrance. Kinch headed down to the radio alcove while LeBeau pointed James to some hanging sheets he could change behind.

Being part of the air force, LeBeau was used to the reoccurring nerves right before takeoff and landing. Something unexpected could go wrong and ruin the entire mission. It was a rush he missed feeling ever since he was brought here. Which was why he agreed to be part of the Colonel's main team. And who could say no to sticking it to the Krauts from behind the scenes?

"Ta-da!" James said, stepping from behind the changing cloth. "Newkirk did a good job, no?"

"You look like a true Kraut," LeBeau joked. "Now, give me your best German accent."

James cleared his throat before saying a few things with a slight accent. LeBeau noted it wasn't exactly German, more Russian, but it would have to do.

"As long as Newkirk does most of the talking, I think you will be good," LeBeau said. James frowned and the Corporal continued through his mental check list. "Do you have your documents?"

"Right here," the boy replied, pulling them out of the pocket the Brit had stuffed them in. "Lutz Strub. 21-year-old male soldier. Wounded in combat. 100% blind."

"Good. You're a fast learner," LeBeau complimented. "Newkirk told me you had something to take with you?"

James nodded and went back behind the cloth. When he came back, he held a tied bundle in his hands. From the looks of it, the bundle was the trench coat tied up like how they moved bunks.

"What is it?" LeBeau asked.

"A change of clothes and some real British pounds. Also my trench coat."

"Will you be able to keep up with it with the bandages on?" LeBeau would have preferred just to send it through the underground some other time.

James nodded. "It won't leave my hands."

LeBeau was satisfied with that answer, not like he could protest it much, and waited for Kinch to come back with word from London. They didn't have to wait long as the Sergeant emerged from the alcove with a blue sheet of paper in hand. "What did they say?" LeBeau asked, turning to the other.

"'Sub will be waiting. Make sure package arrives on time,'" Kinch replied, handing the paper over to LeBeau so he could confirm. "You ready to go, James?"

"Yes, sir. I've been ready ever since I left that prison."

"Good. We'll start to move once it gets dark. LeBeau will take you through the emergency tunnel and wait there until you hear three knocks on the entrance," Kinch said, demonstrating on the wall. "Got it?"

The kid nodded.

"Alright then, mon ami, now we wait."

Newkirk blew in his hands to keep his fingers from falling off. Hogan wasn't kidding; being in the cooler would have turned him into an RAF Popsicle. At least solitary had some blankets to try and keep him warm.

Nightfall came with a mix of nerves and readiness. While the Brit didn't always act like it, he loved doing missions. It was better than lazing around all day after getting bored with regular prison camp work.

He watched the window carefully, looking for any sign of movement. There came the slightest rap on the bars which prompted Newkirk to lift them up. Like every defense in this prison, the bars had been "modified" to help the soldiers more so than the Germans. The man looked up and saw Carter dressed all in black with a suitcase.

"Your outfit and papers are in here," Carter whispered, handing the suitcase over. Newkirk quickly changed into the German outfit before crawling out the window.

Carter lead the other to the nearest fence and said, "James and LeBeau are waiting for you at the exit to the emergency tunnel." They crept up to the modified barbed wire, and Carter lifted it up just enough so Newkirk could crawl under. He then passed the suitcase through the large gaps. "Good luck."

"Thanks, Andrew. That's exactly what I want to hear," Newkirk replied, his tone only half sarcastic.

**A/N:**

**Birthday update! Today is my birthday and I thought I would treat you all with an extra chapter for the week.**


	20. Chapter 20

As the sky turned from pink to purple to finally dark blue, LeBeau lead James through the tunnel system until they reached the hall for the emergency tunnel. LeBeau explained it was the emergency tunnel in case they ever needed to abandon Stalag 13 quickly. It exited out into a forest lining the main road into town.

They stopped in front of a ladder leading up slightly higher than the others. "Do you think you'll ever use it for its intended purpose?" James asked, shifting the weight on his feet.

"I hope not," LeBeau replied. The man checked his watch and nodded to James. "You should start climbing. If they didn't get caught, Newkirk should be on his way."

James nodded and gripped the sides of the ladder. There was a slight tremor in his hands as he ascended. Behind him he heard LeBeau say, "Vive la France and God bless America."

The tremor in his hand lessened as he gripped the ladder tighter. Yes, vive la France and God bless America. One day he wanted to return to those two places, but for now, England would do.

James waited at the top of the ladder; his trench coat bundle pressed against his chest. He tilted his head to get a better angle on the sound coming from above. Other than the beating of his heart, James heard nothing. He started to worry that he'd missed it when the sound of three booming knocks came from above. With a quick glance down at LeBeau for reassurance, James opened the hatch and climbed out.

Newkirk helped him up and grabbed his trench coat bundle. "You alright, mate?" the Brit asked, dusting the other off.

"Yeah, you?"

"I've had better days," the man replied, opening the suitcase and pulling out a roll of gauze. James took a deep breath before Newkirk started to patch up his eyes.

"Will I be like this the entire time?" James asked.

"Until we get to the sub. Can't risk having a freak out or someone recognizing you," Newkirk replied. With each new layer, James saw less and less. Figures morphed together to create an inky blackness.

Newkirk grabbed his upper arm and started leading him in what felt like a random direction. Every step he placed felt uncertain and wobbly. The snow and rocks made each move feel like a game of chance.

"Where are we headed?" he asked, hoping some information would make his legs work.

"To a little inn in town," Newkirk replied, pushing the other every few paces. "We got a contact there, so we have somewhere to sleep tonight. Tomorrow morning we'll catch a train and ride that till our next location: the Netherlands."

They inched along the forest in a journey that should have taken no more than ten minutes yet took the duo almost thirty. James became more and more afraid of slipping and falling despite Newkirk's assurance he wouldn't. And even if he did, the Brit would be there to catch him and help him back up. James wasn't happy, however, until his feet touched the evenness of a well-worn road.

"Finally," the boy muttered, his legs slowly untensing. He started down one direction, but Newkirk quickly turned him a full 180 degrees.

"You really should wait for me," the Brit said, leading him down the road.

With better ground, the two walked at a normal pace. Cold air hit their faces like pins and needles. The wind howled in James' unprotected ear. Ugh. This reminded him of the night he found Stalag 13. The biting cold, the banshee wind. The only thing missing were the deformed twist of the trees and the feeling of burning snow.

"Turn here," Newkirk instructed before orientated James to the correct way. His feet felt the change in ground. There were slight raises and bumps underneath as they walked up the path. Cobble stone?

Newkirk stopped him in front of something with many lights. The yellow glow penetrated the bandages enough that James could make out a building with a door. The Brit went ahead and opened the door before pulling the boy in. Inside James smelled the sourness of beer and the gagging cigarette smoke. Light chatter danced about his ears as they moved through the crowd. Somewhere, faintly, a radio or phonograph played classical music. Unmistakably German.

The Brit stopped at what felt like a bar which James leaned on. The top had a smooth, lacquered top. Probably easiest to clean. "Hallo, how may I help you?" a feminine voice asked.

Newkirk responded, "Ja, we called about a room. We hope there are no lice." James' ears perked, hearing the change in intonation of the other's voice.

"Jawohl. Room 3 has been lice free for weeks," the woman replied. After a pause and rustling exchange, Newkirk grabbed the boy by the forearm and started leading him up a flight of stairs. The going was almost as slow as the forest. His feet weren't good at judging the height of each step and often he would stumble over them. Newkirk was there to catch him if he ever did fall, yet they made it to the room without incident.

The Brit opened the door and James walked in. There was a soft thud behind the boy as the door closed. He carefully took off the gauze so they could re-use them. Newkirk flipped a switch, and a weak, yellow light spread across the room.

The lodgings were bare. Two twin beds sat pushed against the wall. Between them was a dresser with four drawers and a lamp. On the opposite wall there stood a desk with a wooden chair. Other than that the room lacked any furniture or character. James opened one of the drawers in the dresser and placed the gauze and trench coat in it. The boy then went over to the bed farthest from the door and placed his hand on the mattress.

The mattress had to be made of air. He placed both hands on it and pushed down. His body started to sink before he could stand up straight again. That position didn't last long, however, as he couldn't help but fall down on the bed. Springs squeaked and pushed back against his weight. He'd never been so happy to hear that high-pitched squeal in his life.

"Taking full advantage of a real bed, eh?" Newkirk asked.

James turned on the bed to face him and nodded. He saw the other lock the door and turn off the light before settling into his own bed.

"Get some sleep, kid. We got to be up right early tomorrow morning." With that, Newkirk settled into bed. About ten minutes later, James heard him softly snoring away.

James snuggled under the covers and lied on his back. He stared up at the ceiling as his body slowly adjusted to the softness of the bed. Sleep didn't come until well after the noise downstairs had dwindled away. And the scene that played behind his eyes were not what one would call sweet dreams.

The distorted faces of Major Klaus and Captain Marx appeared before him, dragging him away from a burning Stalag 13. Following this was unimaginable torture as his entire body became branded with his serial number and the symbol of the pink triangle. The horror didn't stop until finally the Major placed a gun at the boy's temple and fired.

James woke up with a gasp as a tight ball under the blankets. The sheets were drenched with sweat, and he felt clammy all over. After checking to make sure he didn't wet the bed-thankfully he hadn't-James shed the itchy coat he was wearing and the button up.

Coolness hit his skin, and his heart rate started to slow. It was just a dream. He was still alive. He turned the blanket over so he wouldn't be sleeping with the damp side before settling back into bed.

The night continued on in bouts of waking up in a fit and forcing sleep. While each nightmare was different, they all ended the same way: James being shot. Peaceful sleep didn't come until the boy had no energy left to even realize he was awake. His body just crashed into a coma-like state waiting for dawn.


	21. Chapter 21

The rattling platform announced the arrival of the train seconds before the whistle bellowed its high-pitched tune. Newkirk looked at his watch and then at their tickets. This was their train. The soldier hooked his elbow with James', leading him up to where they could enter. The kid shuffled his feet despite the even ground.

The kid had acting strange that all morning. He'd barely touched his breakfast and stumbled down the road despite it being smooth. That, on top of the wanted papers Newkirk saw of the boy at the inn, made the Brit antsy to get out of Germany. Either the Gestapo or those two officers found a good artist to make up some rendition of the kid. If James hadn't of gained weight, then even the bandages wouldn't be enough to hide the kid's identity. Of course, Newkirk didn't mention the papers to the boy. No need stressing him out when he already had a bad night.

The train came in with a loud roar of the whistle before the brakes slowed it to a crawl. A whooshing of air being released marked the train for coming to a full stop. Newkirk hurried along with James to enter, wanting to get a seat in the back immediately.

The Brit was not polite about pushing through people. Most turned around to say something foul back but stopped dead in their tracks when they saw the bandages over James' eyes. Brilliant. It made getting to the back easy enough.

Two plush, red seats waited there for them. Newkirk guided James to the window seat, so the Brit could deal with anyone walking the aisle. "Got everything?" Newkirk asked, placing his suitcase between his legs. He didn't trust the overhead compartment. He'd lost one too many parcels that way.

"Yeah," James responded, hugging the trench coat bag to his chest.

Newkirk shifted his weight a little in the seat and looked at the other. It was odd not seeing him practically cower inside the trench coat at the mere mention of Germans. Now he was on a train full of them. Maybe they had made some progress.

The train whistle bellowed once more before the sound of air being released signaled the train starting. Newkirk settled back against the seat, ready to enjoy an uneventful train ride.

About ten minutes into their journey, a man wearing a pinstripe vest came down the aisles asking to see everyone's tickets. Newkirk shifted in his seat to reach into his coat pocket and pulled out two crumpled tickets. When the man came up to the pair, he punched the tickets with his hole puncher but didn't move on. "Do you have a problem?" Newkirk asked, folding his arms.

"Damn cripple," the man muttered before moving onto the next car.

Newkirk set his jaw while James gripped his trench coat package tighter. Newkirk noticed this and knocked the kid with his elbow. "Eh, mate, what's wrong? These Krauts starting to get to you?" he asked.

The boy shook his head and sniffled. "Last night," he started, gripping the package even tighter. "I-I couldn't…I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes…someone shot me. And Stalag 13 was burning and you and LeBeau were being attacked…" He put his face down in the parcel. His shoulders jumped and hitched. Going through the motions of crying without actually crying.

Newkirk looked around to see if anyone was watching before putting his arm around the other. Crying inside Hogan's private office was one thing. It was an entirely new situation to cry on a public train. "Come off it now, it's alright. It was only a wee dream. Those Krauts would have to get through me before they touched you," Newkirk tried, hoping the kid would calm down. "Come on. You'll ruin the gauze if you cry too much. We only have two spare rolls."

James sniffled some more before wiping his nose and sitting up. The dampness showed in little grey puddles on the gauze. Newkirk dabbed at them with a hanky in his breast pocket.

Before Newkirk could say anything else, the door at the front of the car slammed open. Everyone snapped their heads to the direction of the noise and saw two Gestapo officers. Their black suits cut a striking image against the eggshell white of the wall. Both wore that horrible red ban with a swastika in the middle.

The car became dead silent as they stood there. Newkirk crossed one leg over the other. The foot resting on his knee held his "pencil sharpener" in the boot. One man held up a wanted poster. The same wanted poster Newkirk had seen at the inn. Bloody hell.

"Has anyone seen this man?" one of the officers asked. The car stayed as silent as the night. The officer holding the picture put it down and muttered something to his partner. They then turned to the first passenger on the left and started asking the person questions. They were going to go down one by one.

A soft murmur picked up in the car. Eyes shifted to and fro across the train car. Women held their purses closes and men straightened their ties. Newkirk kept his eyes on the Gestapo officers. Hopefully James was disguised enough so that the posters would be worthless.

"What's going on?" James whispered.

"Gestapo," Newkirk answered. "They're looking for someone."

"Who?"

The Brit glanced at the kid before replying. His gauze was still damp from the crying, and he had a death grip on his trench coat. No way could he tell him the truth. "Looks like some ruddy criminal. Unwashed with a scraggly beard," Newkirk replied, trying to relax back into the seat. He put his foot down so they wouldn't see his knife.

The men slowly made their way down the aisle, stopping at every seat to show the passengers the poster. When the men stopped by Newkirk and James, the Brit greeted them.

"Have you seen this man?" the officer holding the picture asked.

Newkirk twisted in his seat to get a better look at the poster. It looked strikingly like James when Newkirk and Carter pulled him from outside those few nights ago. "No, sir," the man replied, settling back into his seat.

"What is wrong with him?" asked the other officer, pointing to James. "Is he a cripple?"

The Brit gave a nervous laugh and shook his head. "Nein, nein. He's going home from the war. He lost his sight, and I'm now his escort," he explained. "Show the men your papers, Lutz." James reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope with all his papers. Newkirk opened it and pulled out the fake discharge and medical papers.

The officers glanced at them before pushing the other's hand back. They turned to ask the final passenger if they recognized the picture and left to interrogate the next car.

The minute the train car door shut, everyone let out a collective sigh of relief. That was one way to get the blood pumping this early in the morning. Newkirk handed James back the envelope of papers which the kid stuffed in his coat pocket. His hand trembled.

**A/N:**

**Added some edits to clear up story confusion. **


	22. Chapter 22

Different branches of the Gestapo continued to push James' wanted picture around like the plague. While it had been Klink who first put the call in to the secret police, Major Klaus and Captain Marx took over most of it. No way were they letting that bumbling idiot take the glory for catching their prisoner. If the Gestapo did it at least then they would rough the boy up a bit. Stalag 13 was practically a day spa for those prisoners.

"I want that boy found," seethed the Major after yet another Gestapo officer reported there was no trace of James. The officer was dismissed after being barked at to work harder. Klaus banged his fist on the desk. While James had ran away, they had found their new lodgings. Outside the men were currently constructing new barracks.

"That's the third one today," muttered the Captain. He watched from the window as the prisoners worked. "Could it be possible the queer is already dead?"

The Major shook his head. "We would have found a body or part of it at least. I think he's moving somewhere through Germany."

"How, Herr Major? These men out here are in better shape than he was, and they can barely push a wheelbarrow."

The Major stood and went to look out the window. He stood across from his Captain to watch the men. All wore clothes that hung off them like dresses and looked years younger than they were.

"I think he's getting help from somewhere. More specifically, I think he's getting help from someone at Stalag 13," the Major mused.

"You mean that Colonel Hogan?"

"Of course. Something rubbed me the wrong way about that man…."

"But how would he be helping the prisoner? He's still in Stalag 13," the Captain said. Klink would be making a fuss if _finally _someone escaped.

The Major shook his head and shrugged. "I don't know. But I have a sinking suspicion that's who's been helping our little friend."

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. The officers looked at each other before the Major gave the order to come in. The door opened to reveal a Gestapo officer escorting a portly working-class man in overalls.

"Herr Commandant, this man may have seen the prisoner this morning," reported the officer, pushing the man forward.

Major Klaus took two large steps toward his desk. He was ready to follow this man to the ends of the earth if it led to the successful capture of the pansy. "Where? Where have you seen him?" asked the Major, banging his palm on the desk.

The man flinched at the violent approach. The hat he held in his hands became crumpled as he fidgeted with it. "I-I think I saw him this morning at the inn," the man explained. "But I'm not really sure."

"What do you mean you're not really sure? Either you saw him, or you didn't!" the Major did not have time to investigate false leads. They were almost as bad as no leads.

"Well, Herr Commandant, I was eating breakfast, so I only got a glimpse of him. But he had bandages over his eyes, and he was with some other man," the worker explained.

The Major and Captain looked at each other. So someone was helping the boy. Maybe not Colonel Hogan himself, but a possible connection from outside Stalag 13.

"Draw the bandages on here," the Major instructed, setting down a wanted poster in front of the man. He also placed down a pencil.

The worker tentatively picked up the pencil and started to black out the eyes with one large bar. "The hair was better kept as well," the man added once he was done. The poster looked the same except for the missing eyes.

"And what did this friend look like? The one that was with the boy?" the Major pressed.

The worker shrugged. "Like any other man? He had black hair and grey eyes. Kind tan as well."

"Will that be all, Herr Commandant?" asked the Gestapo officer.

The Major waved his hand and answered yes. As a small reward, he told the officer to allow the man one pound of potatoes from the prisoner's rations. Once the door shut behind the two, Klaus turned to his Captain, eyes wild.

"Do you think it's James and Colonel Hogan?" the Captain asked.

"If it is, then Stalag 13's perfect record has just been blemished," the Major remarked. "Nein, I don't think it's Hogan, but I do think it's James working with someone that knows Hogan."

"I can call the artist and have him redo the picture and make a second one of the other man," suggested the Captain.

"Nein, don't bother. If they were smart enough to obscure half of the boy's face, they're smart enough to know a change in wanted poster," the Major reasoned. "Let our Gestapo officers know to be on the lookout for a boy with bandages over his eyes. Also let them know to start spreading the information by word of mouth. I doubt the two are cocky enough to chit-chat with random strangers."

"Jawohl Herr Major. Anything else?"

"Make sure this information does not reach Colonel Klink or Stalag 13. I want to see how well our escapee can do without that bastard Hogan."


	23. Chapter 23

The train ride from Hammelburg to Essen was about a ten hour's journey. James got use to the gentle rocking of the train car and the grinding halts. Every thirty minutes he smelled the sour odor of tobacco from Newkirk lighting a cigarette.

The rocking acted as a great lullaby for the boy who had a terrible night's sleep. He kept on nodding off into a light slumber only to be awaken by either the bellowing train whistle or knocking his head against the window. The soldier let him sleep, which James was thankful for. A terrible night's sleep mixed with the new fear of the Gestapo being on the train really did not make him the most chipper person in the world.

He'd been asleep for probably forty minutes before he felt someone shaking him. The honey yellow glow of electric light penetrated the bandages over the kid's eyes, and he blinked a few times to come to. "What?" he asked, his voice heavy with sleep.

"Our stop, chap," Newkirk said, gripping James by the shoulder and helping him up. After ten hours of sitting, James' legs felt like they had cement bricks attached to them. It was a similar, though less painful, feeling he had when he ran through the woods to find Stalag 13.

The whistle cried and the wheels screeched to a halt. Newkirk kept a firm grip on James' shoulder as the doors opened to the sound of air being released. James gripped his trench coat parcel close to his chest as they walked out of the train and onto the platform. Cool night air nipped at the edges of his face.

"Alright, let's find a taxi to take us to our next contact," Newkirk instructed, leading James out of the train station and onto the sidewalk. The duo approached edge of the sidewalk as Newkirk yelled out taxi and halt in German. The roar of an engine stalled in front of them before the Brit started pushing James into the back seat of the car. A door slammed once Newkirk entered and set his suitcase onto the floorboard.

"Where to?" the driver asked. His voice sounded like he grew up smoking at least ten cigarettes a day.

"The Mondlicht Hotel," Newkirk replied. The driver grunted in response before starting the car again and driving in the direction of the hotel.

The ride was in silence except for the radio which played a mix between German ballad's and the news. James only half paid attention to it because the anchors spewed the same drivel he'd heard from the Major and Captain. The music also wasn't very entertaining either. Clearly meant for an older generation.

His ears did perk up, however, when he heard mention of Gestapo listings. With a rough translation, James felt sure he heard the anchor say, "Still no sign of the escaped diseased prisoner from Hammelburg. The Gestapo are working closely with Major Klaus, the Commandant of Heidelburg prison camp and Colonel Klink, Commandant of Stalag 13." The reporter then gave a very basic description of James before announcing the next song.

Had Newkirk caught any of that? Was he even paying attention? James assumed since they were going to a hotel that meant they were staying here the rest of the evening. That made James' stomach do summersaults. The longer he stayed in Germany, the likelier it would be that he got caught.

The car stopped just as James felt that familiar heaviness settle into his chest. One hand reached for Newkirk's while the other cradled his parcel. There was a rustling of fake German marks before the soldier grabbed the boy's wrist and pulled him of the car. Not two seconds after the door was shut behind him did the car speed off down the street looking for its next patron.

The sound of lively music waltzed out onto the street that only became louder as the duo approached the hotel. "Newkirk," James whispered, unsure who was around them. "I don't think we should stop for the night. At least not here."

Newkirk scoffed and pulled the other along. "Nonsense. We already have it arranged to stay here by the underground," Newkirk replied.

The bubble of music got even louder as the soldier opened the door to the hotel. Though it was still partially muffled as this was only a lobby of some kind. Their shoes squeaked on the floor as they walked to the counter and were handed a room key. James didn't speak again until they made it to their room via an elevator with a doorman.

Once inside the private lodgings, James removed the bandages over his eyes and saw the decadent room. The front looked like his grandmother's parlor and had two doors leading to other rooms on one wall. He didn't have time to gawk at the surroundings, however, as Newkirk needed to know what he had heard.

"Were you listening to what was on the radio in the taxi?" James asked, setting his trench coat down on the floral printed couch.

"No. Why? You hear something?" Newkirk responded, taking off his coat.

"Yeah. Something about the Gestapo having a search out for me," James said. He folded his arms over his chest, starting to think maybe the Gestapo on the train weren't looking for some old man.

Newkirk paused in his actions of getting comfier and stared at the boy. "Well, I mean, Hogan did say Klink called the Gestapo…"

"He called the Gestapo in Hammelburg. Why would they be broadcasting such news in Essen?"

Newkirk bit his lip a few times over while trying to think of a response. The only thing he could tell the boy was, "Try not to worry, alright mate? We'll get you out of Germany without tipping off the Gestapo any more than they already are."

"You honestly think they won't go to the Netherlands and drag me back to Germany?" James protested, sinking onto the armrest of the couch. "And what about you? What if you get caught? It would rat out the entire underground." The tightness in his chest came back and his lungs felt like they could only hold a few milligrams of air.

He saw flames engulf a morphed image between Stalag 13 and the club he had been pulled out of the night he was arrested. Dogs barked over the screams of those trapped inside, and gun shots rang out against those trying to escape the burning building.

The image faded into inky darkness and soon the only sound he heard was his own labored breathing. Around him he felt something strong holding him, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Newkirk standing above him, giving him an awkward embrace. James slowly calmed down before relaxing against the other's chest.

"You really need to relax, mate," Newkirk said, keeping the other in his arms. "We've done plenty of transfers with higher profile people than you before. Sure, things may get sticky, but you just gotta keep your head."

The boy nodded and sniffled. Keep his head. Right. They wouldn't have been so highly praised if they half did every job. James stayed in the other's arms a few minutes more before pulling away and wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Newkirk patted his shoulder before presenting him with a small glass filled with a brownish liquid. "What's this?" James asked, taking the glass between this thumb and index finger.

"Liquid courage. It'll take the edge off," the Brit explained.

James took one whiff of the stuff and wrinkled his nose. "It's alcohol. I-I don't drink."

"Blimey. Not even wine?" Newkirk asked. "Just take it in one go. You'll barely even taste the thing."

The boy looked down at the glass with the questionably colored liquid. He sipped wine with Mathieu and his dancers every now and then, but never hard liquor. He and his friends had passed around a bottle of beer once in high school and James threw up from that. Though he'd take anything long as it calmed him down.

James brought the glass up to his lips and tipped it into his mouth. It tasted like gasoline smells and he all but spat it back up. He braced himself against his knees as he hacked at the poisonous taste. Jeeze. How did people drink this for fun?

"Heh. Got a kick to it, innit?" Newkirk joked, patting the boy on the back as he coughed. "Come on then. We gotta go back downstairs to meet our next contact. I'll buy you a nice stout glass of milk for your trouble."

James was still coughing as Newkirk wrapped a fresh set of bandages around his eyes. He would have preferred the Brit go alone, but honestly how safe was it to leave a newly blind person alone in an unfamiliar room?

They rode the elevator back down to the main floor before meandering to the room where the music was just as lively as ever. There was laughing and talking and many bodies that they had to squeeze through. The room had an intoxicating scent of perfume, cigar smoke, and the putrid smell of liquor.

He felt the lacquered top of a bar counter and gently put his hand atop a wooden bar stool. Newkirk let go of his left shoulder as the boy sat down. He heard the Brit order two drinks; one beer and one milk. After the drinks were served, James asked, "Who are we meeting?"

"A man that speaks Dutch," the other replied absently. Probably to help get across the Dutch border. A passport would only get you so far if you didn't speak the language.

James slowly sipped his milk, trying to give Newkirk plenty of time to locate and talk to their contact. The night felt like it dragged on and James was starting to sip his milk less and less. The liquid only intensified more pressing matters below the belt. Ten hours of being on a train with no bathroom, and then one of the few things he'd drank was a shot of liquor really makes a guy pressed for a toilet.

Due to the bandages, James couldn't very well find it himself. As embarrassing as it was, he needed Newkirk's help finding the nearest rest room. Because Newkirk had been on his left side when they stopped at the bar, James found it only logical he would be seated to his left. James placed his hand on his own thigh before reaching across to Newkirk's, hoping to get his attention. However, he found only empty air waiting for him.

Odd, but maybe he had turned the other way. James pulled his hand back until he felt the top of the wooden stool. He brushed his hand across the surface, and not once did he encounter Newkirk.

Strange. It wasn't like the Brit to just walk off without saying anything even if he had spotted the contact. James figured Newkirk was on his right side then because he wouldn't have left him there to fend for himself. He did the same thing as before until this time he landed on a thigh.

"Hey," he said, squeezing to get Newkirk's attention. "C-Can we find a restroom?"

The response he got was a harsh shove that caused the seat beneath him to topple over. James fell to the floor with the chair between his legs. He instinctively brought his arm up to shield his face from any blows.

"What the hell are you doing?" came the slurred voice of someone clearly not Newkirk. Before James could respond, the music and voices quieted to allow for a sharp gasp from the crowd as the man gave a swift kick in the gut to the boy. "Feelin' me up like some queer."


	24. Chapter 24

Newkirk was leaning on the edge of his seat talking to a young woman with a low-cut dress. The contact was taking longer than expected to get here, so the Brit thought he might as well chat up a pretty dame in the meantime.

The pair were laughing when suddenly Newkirk's chair was shoved, and his drink spilled over the woman. She gasped and tried to dry herself with a napkin while Newkirk turned around to see what had happened. James was on the floor with some large man towering over him. Before the Brit could say anything, the man kicked James in the stomach.

Newkirk's fist clenched at his sides and he saw red. What kind of inbreed muck kicked a blind person? Not to mention someone as small as James. The soldier held his hand in front of the larger man to stop him from attacking James any further and said, "What's your problem?"

The man knocked Newkirk's hand away. He honestly didn't look like someone who would be in such a nice hotel bar. "This pansy was touchin' my thigh like I was some fräulein," the other replied. A small crowd had grown around the three of them now. The girl Newkirk had been chatting with was nowhere in sight.

A quick glance at James showed he was still doubled over from the pain of being kicked in the stomach. Though Newkirk knew that was _not _what the kid was trying to do. "You see that he's blind, don't ya? He was probably trying to get my attention. I'm his escort," the Brit explained, searching his pockets for the forged papers. However, as he reached inside his pockets, he realized they were in his suitcase.

The man snorted. "Like I'm supposed to believe that," he said.

"I-It's true," James interjected. Every head turned to look down at the trembling mess that was supposed to pass for a soldier. "I-I lost my vision during the war. I have papers to prove it."

Newkirk and the other men backed up as James slowly rose to his feet. He leaned on the bar counter for support as he pulled out the forged medical and discharge papers. He extended them in the vague direction of the drunk who snatched at them, tearing the corner off one of them.

While the man read the papers, Newkirk wrapped his arm around James as a crutch. When the man finished reading the documents, he snorted before giving the papers back to the Brit. "Soldier my ass," the man stated. "Boy barely looks old enough to grow hair on his chest." With that the man lumbered off, parting the crowd like Moses.

The boy trembled in Newkirk's grip. The Brit knew they needed to leave before James melted into a puddle of anxiety. As the music started up again and murmurs weaved through the room, Newkirk ushered James out of the bar. Shallow puffs of air escaped the boy's lungs as they made their way to the elevator. The soldier placed a hand on the back of the other's head to press it against his chest. They needed to contact their Dutch friend tonight, but Newkirk was not about to let James have a panic attack in a room full of people.

A ding signaled their stop. Newkirk helped the other out of the elevator and to their room. He walked with the boy to the couch before sitting on it with him. James latched onto him like a leach. The minute they settled onto the couch; the flood gates broke loose.

Big, gasping sobs mixed with shallow breathes of air. Newkirk worked away at the bandages around James' eyes. No way could that be good for the other. The gauze fell in a damp heap in the boy's lap. All the Brit could do now was hold the kid and hope it was enough. Maybe in officer training they taught you how to handle cases like this, but nothing in basic training taught him how to deal with wailing fruitcakes.

In younger years, his mother would give him and his sister a spoonful of brandy to quiet them down. While Newkirk was itching to just silence the boy, something deep inside him told him that wasn't the right thing to do. Instead he stayed on the couch with the boy, his arms wrapped around him like a security blanket.

It wasn't possible to tell if the boy had calmed down or his body just gave out. Newkirk swore it felt like one moment the kid was sobbing and the next he was limp as a noodle. In any case, James' face turned an ugly red color and his eyes had swollen to the size of grapefruits.

_At least he's quiet._ Newkirk's shirt was stained with snot and tears, so he unbuttoned it and opened his suitcase to grab another one. He shouldered it on and started to button it when a knock came to the door. Bloody hell, what now?

"What?" Newkirk asked, fiddling with the buttons on the sleeve.

"Gestapo. Open up."

No three words could chill Newkirk's bones as fast as those.

"Uh, little busy," the Brit replied, looking around the room for something to cover James. If they found him, they were busted for sure.

"Open up before we break down the door!"

Newkirk cursed under his breath. Whatever had sent them couldn't be reversed now. The Brit would have to figure a way out now.

"Coming," he called, going to the door and opening it. What greeted him on the other side were four Gestapo officers clad in black. They mimicked a form of the grim reaper.

Three of the men pushed past Newkirk while the one that had been yelling through the door explained their purpose, "We received a call that someone calling themselves Lutz may be impersonating a soldier."

Fantastic. Newkirk could only watch in horror as the three men found James passed out on the couch. They grabbed the boy violently and began searching his pockets for the forged documents. The papers would fool the average border guard or inspector, but the Gestapo was another matter. Not to mention the fact that James' medical papers say he lost not only his sight but his actual eyes as well.

One officer looked at the papers while the others roused the poor boy. He woke slowly and his eyes widened when he saw the three men standing around him. Crystal blue eyes stared back at beady little green ones that yelled something in German.

"Arrest him!" shouted the officer still at the door with Newkirk. Newkirk tried to interject, but the other slapped a pair of handcuffs on him as well. "You're also under arrest for conspiracy." The officer tightened the cuffs before pushing Newkirk out of the room. Over his shoulder he saw James being cuffed and yelled at in German. His was white as a sheet.


	25. Chapter 25

The chandelier in the hotel lobby sparkled like the overhead lights of a stage. The warm light they gave off shined against the leather coats of the Gestapo officers dragging James and Newkirk out onto the street. Fresh snow fell as the two captives were pushed into the back of a car by gun point. The car booked it down the street to the nearest Gestapo headquarters. While the motor roared in protest to the sudden speed, all James could hear was his breathing. That heavy, chest-compressed breathing.

The front of the Gestapo office sported a large Nazi flag and two guards by the door. James and Newkirk were shoved from the car and led up the stone steps. The guards opened the door for them before they were escorted to a back room. The room was made of cement and had only a table, a single chair, and the barest of lighting. The highest-ranking officer was the last to enter. In his hands he held Newkirk's brief case and James' trench coat parcel. He slammed both on the table before walking round to the other side and sitting down in the chair. Guards stood on either side of the man and two more stood on either side of the prisoners.

"Lutz Strub. 22-years-old. Wounded in action. Lost both his eyes," the officer read from one of James' forged papers. The man flecked his eyes at James as he crumpled the paper in his gloved hand. "Clearly a lie."

James' entire body trembled like jelly. There had been no discussion about if the Gestapo caught him what he was supposed to say. Thankfully, Newkirk had a quick tongue, "The doctor exaggerated a little in the papers. His eyes were _damaged _in the war."

The officer snapped his attention to Newkirk and threw the crumpled paper at him. "There is no record of a Lutz Strub having even been in the military," the officer told the soldier. "The most we found on a Lutz Strub was an eighty-year-old baker."

Newkirk chewed his lip. Fast talk wouldn't cut it here.

The officer's eyes shifted between the two before snapping his fingers. The gloved hand made a soft squeak sound which signaled one of the guards to step forward. From his breast pocket he pulled out a folded-up piece of paper. To James' horror, he saw his face slowly be smoothed out of the wrinkles. It was a wanted poster depicting a similar face to James', his name, and the serial number branded into his arm.

His knees buckled before the officer could even say anything to him. Newkirk sprung to help, but the guard to his side grabbed his shoulders and stopped him. The other "helped" James by forcing him to stand. The officer at the table had a terrible smirk on his face. "James Foster, the escaped criminal who has almost every Gestapo officer in Germany looking for him. You're a long way from Hammelburg," the officer commented. James said nothing in reply. "We got a call this morning that _maybe _the escaped prisoner was with someone and had bandages over his eyes. You can imagine our surprise when a drunken draft board worker comes into our office giving a vaguely similar description."

James cursed inside his head. If he hadn't been so stupid, they would probably be learning simple Dutch by now. This was his fault. Newkirk would be met with a firing squad because of him.

"That's a load of bull," Newkirk suddenly said. The Brit had his jaw set and his fist were clenched in front of him. "Everybody looks a little similar to you guys when the heat is on. Sure, he may have lied about being a soldier, but that doesn't make him your escaped criminal."

The boy thought he felt his heart skip a beat before the officer countered, "We have ways of making sure this is the right man. Lift up his sleeve."

The guard that had picked James up now grabbed him to hold him still. The boy shook his head as the other officer grabbed his wrist and pulled up his sleeve. Newkirk tried to get in between the two, but the guard shoved him away. The Brit fell to the floor as the thick, black brand was exposed to the officer at the table.

James began to scream at the guards. The one that had lifted up his sleeve backed away as the boy thrashed in his grip. Amid the hysteria, the officer said, "Major Klaus and Captain Marx will be connected shortly. They'll be here by morning. Take him away somewhere." The officer waved his hand to dismiss the guard struggling to hold James. The boy was still thrashing and trying to get away from it all.

This wasn't supposed to happen. The plan seemed fool proof. Hogan had assured him he'd be taken to England. Now all he wanted to do was hide behind Newkirk and let this all dissolve away like the other hallucinations. He'd open his eyes and hear his own breathing before realizing he had stained another one of Newkirk's shirts. He told himself this even as the heavy steel door closed and his screams bounced off the ceiling.


	26. Chapter 26

It was only when the metal door clanked shut that Newkirk let a small hint of panic set in. There was almost to no way to contact Hogan or anyone part of the underground here. Not to mention something had to be done _tonight_ or James would be right back where he started. The Brit didn't even want to think about what was in store for him.

A guard pulled him to his feet, so the officer could continue to question him. "So, now the question begs, who are you?"

"Henry Gobshire. Corporal for the RAF. Serial number 73489," Newkirk stated. "I don't have to give any more information than that according to the Geneva Convention."

"You think I believe that?" the officer asked, pulling the suitcase towards him. Newkirk made no remark as the other unclasped the lid and opened it up. On top the officer found Newkirk's forged papers bearing the name Ronald Ratzenberger. These the officer glanced at them before throwing them aside. Underneath were some clothes which the officer threw aside as well. After running his hand along seam of the suitcase's lining, the officer tossed it aside. He then grabbed trench coat parcel and undid the knot James had tied. The insides collapsed once the walls were down. A mess of clothes and money spilled out. The officer paid no mind to it and instead inspected the trench coat a little more closely.

"Too small to be yours, but too big to be his," the man commented, scanning the collar. "Mathieu. That's a French name. Who is he?"

Newkirk shook his head. "I don't know. James knew him. They were mates." The Brit thought he could save the kid some way.

"Doubtful. Men like him don't just have what you call 'mates'," the officer explained, setting the trench coat down. "Makes me wonder about you as well."

Newkirk's jaw tightened at the dig. Some part of him knew that conclusion would be mentioned, but he didn't want it to. To banish the inkling that he would be like that, the Brit let something vile slip, "I'm not a queer like him. He's more of a dame than some of the fräuleins I've met."

The old criminal in him was talking. Panic woke it up. That fighting spirit and the need to stay free itched at him like poison ivy. Of course, a pit grew in his stomach after saying it, but he meant it.

"Based on that reaction it's clear this is bigger than a little shag quest," the man noted. Newkirk said nothing. The Gestapo would get zero out of him. The man smirked. "We have ways of making you talk. Maybe you're staying silent to protect that boy. Maybe to protect your group. But you're just delaying the inevitable. One way or the other we will wring the information out of you. Literally, if need be." He signaled to a guard to grab Newkirk as they were preparing to move. "Once that boy is gone we'll see how long you last. Take him away, then. Tomorrow will be the real fun."

The guard grabbed Newkirk by the shoulder and led him out the door. James' screams still seemed to echo in the room. Some papers spilled on the floor gave evidence of his struggle. The Brit was escorted past that and down a hall full of cells. They walked down to one of the last ones where Newkirk saw James curled up on the bed through the bars. The guard unlocked the door before pushing Newkirk in. The lock clicked, and the officer walked off.

Newkirk walked over to where James was and gently put a hand on his shoulder. No response. He gave a shove and still there was no response. The kid was out cold.

The soldier still had the pencil sharpener in his boot. The Krauts hadn't been smart enough to search him. The lock on the door seemed simple enough. If anything, he could just break it and subdue any guard. Usually they only posted one. He could then walk out the front door and book it back to Stalag 13 before anyone had time to miss him, including James.

"Bugger it," he seethed, kicking the wall. There was that selfish part of him again. The part that lived by the criminal's code and not the law of no man left behind. How easy those ways called back to him. And how much easier it would to leave James knowing the kid would never talk. Not when he clung to Newkirk like a puppy every time he had a fit.

These thoughts weighed heavy on the Brit and he needed to take a seat. He slid down the wall opposite of the bed and stared at James' passed out form. Did Newkirk give off those vibes? He'd only meant to be welcoming after seeing the ruddy state the kid was one. Maybe he'd been too friendly. Some wires got crossed. But boys like that weren't raised where he was from. Boys grew into men, not pansies.

That must be it then. As close as James was to him on almost a daily basis, surely _it _was rubbing off on him. In that case, James really was carrying a disease. From now on, he would have to be dealt with at arm's length. Maybe more depending on how much longer they would be together.

Newkirk wouldn't abandon the kid, however. No, he would follow the mission. Just had to get in contact with Colonel Hogan or someone else in the underground to get them out of this sticky wicket.


	27. Chapter 27

The Brit watched as James' husk of a body was thrown in the back of the truck. As the truck started, Newkirk knew they could not make it back to Hammelburg. A day trip to the local inn was one thing. Helping an escaped prisoner cross the German border was another.

He adjusted himself into a better position now that the vehicle was in motion. He pulled at the handcuffs behind his back. They felt like the standard issue. His knife wouldn't fit in the lock though.

"James," Newkirk called, hoping the kid was still of this Earth. "James, get up."

The boy didn't move a muscle. In the low light Newkirk couldn't tell if his eyes were open or not.

Newkirk sighed and slowly got to his knees and shuffled over to the other. The rivets on the floor banged into his knees. Metallic clinks announced his arrival to James' side. "Listen, we have to work together if we're going to get out of this mess."

To the Brit's surprise, James replied, "What can we do? We're captured. The jig is up."

"No, it's not. We just have to stop them from taking us back to Hammelburg. A flat tire or two would do just the trick."

James slowly righted himself, so he was sitting. He looked at Newkirk and said, "These men aren't Klink. They won't fall for some stupid trick."

While it was great that James was up, Newkirk wished it was on better terms. "We have to try something," the man said. "If we don't, there is a 100% chance we won't be seein' the end of this war."

"Why do you even care what happens to me? You probably think I'm just some pansy." James retorted.

Newkirk was silent a moment before saying, "Th-that's not true mate."

"Really? Because earlier it seemed like it. Pushing me away, acting like I was scum. Calling me a ruddy queer!" James' words choked in his throat as if trying to constrict what he was saying.

The Brit didn't know what he could say. He moved back against his side of the truck. Now time to think of a new plan that would get them to stop. What would two German officers stop for? It was clear they didn't care for the Geneva Convention. Maybe they cared for sanitation? The idea was a stretch, but so were many of Colonel Hogan's.

Newkirk turned himself so he was facing the wall that the Major and Captain sat behind. He banged on it with the bottom of his foot, trying to get their attention. "Hey!" he called, continuing to bang on the wall. "Hey! I gotta take a leak! Please! It's been ruddy hours since I last went." The Brit banged on the wall and called out to the officers until the truck stopped. James lifted his head up when the driver's and passenger's door opened and closed. Newkirk righted himself when the large back doors opened.

Captain Marx was the one that climbed into the back of the truck and dragged the soldier out.

"You are a pain," the Major said, pulling the keys out of his pockets. He unlocked Newkirk's handcuffs for a brief second before pulling them around the front. He then turned the other, so he was looking in the truck. Newkirk thought he saw a glimpse of hope in the boy's eyes.

"Sorry, sir, but I really can't go with him looking at me. I don't want the bloke to get the wrong idea," Newkirk explained.

"Just go. You lasted this long with him," replied the Major.

Newkirk let out an exaggerated sigh before unzipping his pants and peeing. From the corner of his eye he checked out the officers behind him. From what he could see, they both had guns strapped to their hips. Major Klaus also had a set of keys attached to his belt on the other hip. Not in a very secure way either.

He zipped up his pants and turned around, expecting the officers to cuff them behind his back again.

"Get in the truck," Captain Marx ordered, turning Newkirk back around.

He stumbled into the back of the truck and watched as Marx closed the door. Mere seconds went by before the doors slammed shut and the engine roared to life. The truck swayed roughly down the road.

"They won't fall for it, eh?" the Brit asked, a small smirk forming on his face.

James breathed out a deep sigh before weakly stating, "What do we do?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Newkirk stated before getting into a better position to talk. "We have to do something that'll get both their attention focused on something other than me."

"What are you thinking of doing then? They won't stop for another bathroom break, and there's nothing else I could think of them even considering stopping for." The hopeless tone in James' voice was creeping back in.

A small pit grew in his stomach. The only idea he had put James on the receiving end of punishment.

"James," he started, unsure how to begin, "do you think you could handle one of their punishments?"

"What do you mean?" James asked, his voice wavering.

"I have this idea in mind, but for it to work, I would need you to be the main distraction."

James stayed silent for what felt like an eternity. It was not an easy thing to be asked, especially since Newkirk knew how the other was just by seeing Schultz. But if James didn't agree, then they would most likely be separated once they reached Hammelburg. The kid would be all alone with those two Krauts.

"James?" Newkirk said, hoping the kid wasn't having another episode.

"You want me to be bait," he finally said, letting out a gentle sigh.

The Brit only nodded. It wasn't the best job, but it had to be done. "Just follow my lead, okay?" Newkirk figured it was best not to tell the other what exactly he had in mind.

James mumbled something which sounded like an okay. That gave Newkirk all he needed. Within a second he did his best to lunge on James and hold him by the collar. In the dim light he could tell the boy's face was one of bewilderment. He muttered something about just go with it before he yelled, "Get off me, ya ruddy queer!" He then banged one hand next to James' head to act like he was hurting James.

He went on like that, shouting almost every name in the book before they stopped. By then Newkirk could tell James was almost in tears. His own heart began to ache as his accent got thicker and he started using more of the common slang from his neck of the woods. Words he hadn't used or heard since he stopped going to the seedy pub down the road. Words of a criminal. In any event, it did the trick, because the truck stopped, and the back doors opened to reveal two German officers red in the face with anger.

"You little mongrel," seethed the Major. He climbed into the back of the truck and pushed Newkirk off James. He then dragged the boy out of the truck and forced him to the ground. He shouted slurs at the kid while kicking him and beating him. The Captain had an almost sadistic grin on his face as he watched his superior officer. The display made something inside Newkirk snap. After the beating this morning and his own cruelty, Newkirk couldn't stand to see James being abused so horribly. Yet the punishment would be worse if he didn't continue with the plan.

He soon got his rear in gear and shuffled out of the truck. With the officers' back turned to him, Newkirk lifted the Major's key ring. Two of them looked almost identical while the other looked like the key to the truck.

The identical keys were small with a single bump out. These were the keys which Newkirk used to free himself. He then raced over to the passenger side door. In the glove box he hoped to find a gun; which he did. He checked to make sure it was loaded before he attempted his most ballsy move; taking one of the officers hostage.

Newkirk sneaked along the side of the truck before coming up behind Major Klaus, who had downgraded to only yelling slurs. The Brit took advantage of this and grabbed the officer round the neck.

The man cried out in confusion, yet quickly shut up once Newkirk pressed his knife to the man's throat. The gun he pointed at Captain Marx. The chaos rested for a moment as the three soldiers settled into their new reality. James made the only sound; coughing.

"Drop the knife, Englander," Captain Marx ordered, pointing his gun at the Brit.

"In your bloody dreams," Newkirk responded.

Marx cocked it, prompting Klaus to say, "Don't shoot, dummkopf!" The captain to looked to his Major with eyes full of concern.

Before Marx could question any further, Newkirk explained, "Shoot me, I slice his throat. Now how would that look on an official report?"

Marx looked to Klaus for a sign and let his gun drop to his side. Internally Newkirk cheered. Externally the Brit cocked his gun and told Marx to drop his. The Captain reluctantly dropped his firearm. Now time for business.

"Help James up," he ordered Marx. The man kept his eyes on the Brit as he went over to the boy and yanked him to his feet. James stumbled over and all but leaned on the officer.

"Take him to the passenger seat," Newkirk continued. He followed behind the Captain, keeping a firm grip on the Major. Once James was safely inside the Brit did something he never thought he would do; Newkirk shot the captain in the foot.

The man went down wailing and grabbing his foot. The Major jerked forward, yet Newkirk kept the knife pressed to his throat. A small dribble of blood began to leak down his throat.

"Let me go, bastard!" the Major cried, trying to wiggle his way out. "Why are you even wasting your time on a faggot like him?"

The Brit slammed the officer against the side of the truck, causing the it to rock a little. "Maybe if you spent a little less time judging him and little more time getting to know him then you'd see he's a great little lad. And I wouldn't wish the kind of torture you pull on even my worst enemy, bloody Kraut." The Corporal then banged the man's head against the truck a second time and his body went limp.

Newkirk dropped the officer and raced to the driver's side door before starting the truck. It rumbled to life and the Brit shifted into the fastest gear.

**A/N:**

**Next week's update will be on Sunday because I have my Chemistry final on Saturday. The story is wrapping up soon! Thank you for reading!**


	28. Chapter 28

James slumped in his seat. There was a size eleven boot bruise imprinted on his side, and his nose turned into a bloody faucet. The moving car was the only thing he could focus on without black dots popping into his vision.

"You good, kid?" Newkirk asked, his voice barely audible above the white noise filling his ears.

He groaned in response before his body became racked with coughing. He placed his hand over his mouth to try and muffle the sound. When he pulled it back, small drops of blood gleamed back at him. He didn't have the strength to tell Newkirk, so he wiped his hand on the man's sleeve.

Newkirk glanced down at his arm and saw three, rust-colored streaks. He reached over and patted James' head. "Don't worry, James, we'll find someone to take care of you," Newkirk assured seconds before the white noise overtook the rocking and James slipped into sleep.

James' dreams were plagued with images of a firing squad and Stalag 13 burning to the ground. The firing squad raised their rifles to him, but they forgot to give him a blindfold. He saw their faces blurred into familiar features. The eyes of his lover here, the jawline of his father there.

Their bullets exploded like fireworks before him. They fizzled and cracked next to his ear as they died in the air. The only sound that remained was the heavy thumping of his heart.

It beat like a war drum ready to burst from his chest. The sound became louder and louder as his heart got bigger and bigger to the point where his lungs popped from the pressure.

The air in his body depleted while his heart continued to grow. His chest caved in from lack of oxygen, falling around the monstrous organ. James couldn't even scream as his heart exploded from his chest and a white light surrounded his body.

James woke up screaming and felt something pushing down against his shoulders. His eyes adjusted to the bright light and saw Newkirk materialize in front of him. His breathing began to slow as he realized he was in a room with walls and a bed. Newkirk placed him back against the bed and wiped his forehead with a washcloth.

"Wh-Where are we?" James asked, noting that Newkirk was in a new outfit.

"Inside a contact's house," the other explained. "We're trying to pass word along to Colonel Hogan about the situation. No luck yet."

The idea that they were safe had yet to sink in. After all that there needed to be consequences. "What about Major Klaus and Captain Marx? They know who you are," James said.

"They know me face but not me name," Newkirk replied before scratching the back of his neck. "And…I may have shot one of them in the foot."

That made James bolt right up, causing him to cough uncontrollably. Newkirk gently patted his back until the boy calmed down. He set James back down on his side, and the kid curled into fetal position.

Shooting a German officer while also helping an escaped prisoner? Unheard of. Before Newkirk was looking at torture and solitary for the rest of the war, now the Brit would be standing shoulder to shoulder with James in front of a firing squad. Unless Newkirk could make it back to Stalag 13 before Klaus and Marx did.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, mate," Newkirk assured. "I've been in stickier wickets than this. I almost joined the German army."

Unease hung over James like a dark cloud. "If Colonel Hogan says to return to Stalag 13, I want you to go. I don't want you to be branded as a queer as well," James mumbled.

Newkirk shook his head. "Oh, rubbish. Who cares what those blasted krauts say?" he said. "They could put in me in a dress and call me Nancy, and I'd still be more of a man then them."

"Didn't seem like that earlier…" James was still pissed off over how the Brit had treated him the past few hours.

Newkirk didn't respond for a few moments. An uneasy silence crept in until the Corporal finally said, "I was being a nimrod. A proper fool. When I saw what those krauts were doing to ya…I couldn't just sit back and watch. It reminded me too much of my harsh times in London."

James looked up at Newkirk and saw the sincerity in his eye. The Brit really was sorry. Although it would take a little more to forgive him, James settled back against the bed to rest, feeling better about the hands he was in.

After eavesdropping on multiple conversations, James learned they were back in Essen at the Dutch man's hideout. There was minimal contact with the underground, but the message to Hogan was being patched through. Also, from very quiet conversations, their Dutch friend believed James may have a cracked rib. Could he still dance with a cracked rib?

With James mostly left alone relied on his own horrid thoughts for entertainment. After all this, he wouldn't be able to dance. He couldn't return to France until after the war. And the last scrap of his lover was burned until only ash remained.

At dinner time Newkirk relayed some good news to help ease James' mind. "Guess who just got back to us," the Brit said, setting down a tray of food across James' lap. The boy pulled himself up and propped a pillow behind him.

"Who?" he asked, looking down at the tray. There was a generous helping of potato soup and a side of bread. The meager meal would have been a feast a few weeks ago.

"Colonel Hogan. He said nothing seemed off at Stalag 13, but they would keep an eye out," the Brit reported. "He also said to go ahead with the mission as soon as we are able. We're gonna leave right after dinner."

James looked at Newkirk with wide eyes. "Are you crazy? We just got away from Klaus and Marx," the boy said. "We're probably the most wanted people in Germany!"

"If we stay put, we're bound to get caught, mate," Newkirk responded.

"How are we going to get out of Germany then? The Gestapo took our documents, remember? They won't let us cross the border if we don't even have an ID card."

"I already planned for that. I'll show you," the Brit said, getting up and setting his plate down on the nightstand beside the bed. Newkirk exited the room and came back with a long, black uniform. "I knicked it from the cleaners."

James stared at the uniform in disbelief. "You're going to pretend to be a Gestapo agent?"

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"What about me, then? Maybe they won't recognize you, but I'd need a new face before stepping out that door."

Newkirk rolled his eyes before setting the uniform aside. "You think I haven't thought of that?" he asked. "We're going to pretend to be moving cargo. You'll be in one of the crates."


	29. Chapter 29

Newkirk slicked his dark hair back with some water before adjusting the hat on his head into military regulation. The mirror reflected a ghoulish, black figure. The only color was the red swastika on his arm. Just seeing the uniform him want to puke.

"Ready?" James asked, knocking on the bathroom door. Newkirk called back that he was and opened the thin, wooden door. James stood on the other side, helped by their contact, Rik.

Rik was an older man that had fought on the side of the Allies during the Great War. He was more than happy to do anything against the Germans.

"Is the truck set?" Newkirk asked, exiting the bathroom. Rik nodded and lead the two down the hall and out a back door. The Brit had parked the truck behind the house and tried to wedge it between the house and a shed. It wasn't the best-done job, but a tarp hid what Newkirk's driving skills couldn't.

Newkirk pulled the tarp off and let it fall to the snow. He pulled out the keys and unlocked the back, revealing different sized boxes and crates.

"Are they all empty?" James asked, gripping the side of the truck and pulling himself up. Newkirk climbed in beside him and pulled two boxes off the top of a long crate.

"Some are, some aren't. Our friend Rik has same sticky fingers around German military supplies," the Brit joked. He slid the lid off the long crate and pointed at it. "In," he ordered.

James looked at him a moment before complying. He ambled over to the crate and lowered himself in. Once inside, James looked more like a corpse in a coffin than a person in a crate. The Brit leaned down and grabbed a blanket for the other and placed it over him. Next, he handed the kid a gun.

"What's this for?" James asked, clumsily taking the gun. He kept his fingers far from the trigger.

"In case things don't go according to plan," Newkirk replied, grabbing the lid. "The ride is only two hours long, but that's plenty of time for those ruddy Krauts to catch us if they really want. If they do, the gun is to shoot them when they start tearing open the crate."

James set the gun down beside him. Newkirk saw the butt of it peak out from under the blanket. The Brit then placed the lid over the crate and said, "I'll knock on the lid three times so ya know it's me. Just sit tight for a few more hours." With that, Newkirk stacked the boxes back on top of the crate before jumping out and shutting the doors.

The soldier and the interpreter then walked to the front of the truck and squeezed in the cab. Newkirk started the engine before pulling out and starting down the road. Rik pulled out a map and flashlight to give the other directions.

"You know the back roads, right?" Newkirk asked, adjusting one of the mirrors.

"Ja, of course," the other said, placing the flashlight over the map. "How do you think I've survived in Germany this long?"

After a few miles of driving on the smooth and quiet main road, Rik instructed Newkirk to make a turn off onto a dirt road branching into the forest. The going was slow; even more so because the man was trying to not jostle James too much. Though with every mile flipping on the odometer Newkirk wanted to put the pedal to the metal.

There was always this rush near the end of the mission. Dragging it out meant there were more times for mistakes. More time for the Krauts to catch wind or the Gestapo to catch up. Even Colonel Hogan experienced that final rush of adrenaline. Though what made him a Colonel was the fact he still acted levelheaded under those moments.

Newkirk tried to channel that now as he drove. The road had some harsh bumps and sharp turns. And he was pretty sure the crate James was in said "Handle with Care".

About an hour into the drive, Rik told Newkirk to turn back onto the main road. They were a few miles from the Dutch-German border. Newkirk slowed the truck to a crawl as he cracked his knuckles and neck. Now was the moment of truth.

The truck crept towards the border checkpoint. The only thing the duo could see was the sentry booth, for a lamp illuminated the area around it. The guard inside stirred when he heard the roar of the truck. He stood at attention and waited for Newkirk to pull up. The Brit stalled the car and rolled down the window to talk to the guard.

"What is your business here?" the guard asked, peering inside the car.

"I have orders from the head of the Gestapo to deliver cargo in the Netherlands," Newkirk replied.

The guard shined his light into the cab of the truck and pointed it at Rik. The guard said something in Dutch which Rik responded to in kind. They exchanged a few more words before the guard asked for Newkirk's papers.

The Brit rolled his eyes and pretended to rummage through his various pockets as he said, "A Gestapo officer should not have to do this…" He cursed a few times before slamming his palm on the dashboard. Rik and the guard jumped at the sudden outburst. "I can't find the papers," he explained, hunching over the wheel.

The guard looked to Rik and asked something in Dutch. Rik replied solemnly. The guard stood up straighter and said that Newkirk could go ahead. The sentry went back to his booth and lifted up the gate. Newkirk drove through slowly and didn't speed up until they were well out of sight of the border check.

A grin spread across Newkirk's face, making him look like the Cheshire Cat. "What did you tell that bloke?" Newkirk asked once they turned off the main road.

"That you knew how to get in contact with any superior officer," Rik said, pulling out another map. This one showed the Netherlands before it had been captured by Germany.

They rode in relative silence. The only thing said above the roar of the engine were the directions that Rik shouted out. Another hour went by as they passed a wooden sign that said, "Welkom in Willemstad".


	30. Chapter 30

Inside the crate, James sweated, and he kicked the blanket down to his feet. There were a few airholes, so he could breathe, but his body heat stayed trapped inside the walls. He kept his hands up to his chest, yet every now and then James reached down to make sure the gun was still there. His sweaty palms slipped across the barrel. He prayed that he wouldn't have to use it.

Every turn they took caused everything in the back to shift, including James. The first few times it happened; James braced himself against the sides of the crate. It shifted to the side slightly, but never tumbled or crashed as he heard other things do. Soon his body got used to the turns, especially as they became more frequent later. He didn't know how long it had been since they started driving, but he didn't think there should have been these many turns so far into the journey. The thought of them being lost crossed his mind, and it terrified him.

James tried not to dwell on those thoughts, however. A tiny part of him still wanted to believe he would make it to England alive. And even though every confusing turn made his heart race, they never got caught.

The truck stopped after a while of just heading straight. James believed they had found the main road again. When the engine shut off, the boy placed his hands on the lid of the crate. Though the two boxes Newkirk had set on top pushed back against him with more force. He brought his arms back over his chest, and his fingers trembled.

Three solid knocks echoed from the top of the crate. James' heart pounded as the lid slid off and the Brit's face hovered above him. The man helped the kid out of the crate. The gun clanked against the wood as James dropped it.

The duo ambled out of the truck by way of a flashlight that Newkirk held. At the mouth of the truck, James smelt saltwater, and he heard the gentle waves crashing against the shore.

They climbed down into the mounds of sand. James sunk up to his ankles. Newkirk helped him drag his feet through the soft, grainy sand to the damp, compact sand.

"Watch your step," Newkirk warned, leading them up to something uneven. There was soft creaking beneath their feet as they walked, and the sound of the waves became deafening.

"Are we on a pier?" James asked, hand reaching out for a railing.

"Well submarines can't very well go on shore, now can they?" Newkirk replied. He stopped them a few paces short of walking off the pier and turned on the flashlight. He signaled out into the inky blackness. With every click of the button James felt his heart rate beat faster and faster.

Among the sounds of the crashing waves came the rush of splitting water. Mechanical clinks entered the cacophony and James felt the pier shake. Lights emerged from the water along with the hull of an entire sub.

Newkirk shined his flashlight on the entrance of the sub as the hatch opened. A man in a white uniform and tipped his cap to Newkirk. He extended a hand to James.

The kid felt frozen. His feet stuck to the wood like glue. The Brit gripped the boy's arm and lead him forward. Every step felt like the wood would give way and he'd plunge into the icy depths of the water to wake up back outside Stalag 13.

But the warm hand that grabbed his to help him onto the ship told him that this was real. Even having a minor heart attack after slipping on the damp ship told him this was real.

The man in white steadied the boy on top of the sub. "You're almost home, son," the man said getting on top of the sub as well as to allow James room to descend.

James didn't know how to respond. He looked down the hatch and saw a glowing, green light illuminating a control room. The man said something to him again, but the sound of the ocean swallowed it up.

"You're gonna be alright, mate. You're in good hands," said Newkirk from behind.

The boy turned around and saw the Brit giving him a smile. For a moment the Gestapo uniform vanished, and James saw the other in his RAF outfit. "Don't be a stranger, alright? After the war, I better see you in Paris for a show," James called back. The two waved goodbye before James climbed down the ladder. The man went in behind James and closed the hatch. The soldier helped him into a seat as they submerged.

**A/N:**

**Merry Christmas to all and a happy New Year! I thought I would give y'all a little Christmas present since the story is wrapping up. The final chapter will be published this Saturday. **


	31. Chapter 31

Newkirk changed into a set of civilian clothes that Rik had loaned him before making it back to Stalag 13. He ditched the truck at the motor pool, and from there he found his way back to the barracks via the underground. He banged on the false bunk and waited for someone to open it.

The bunk slid up and LeBeau greeted him. "Welcome back, mon ami," LeBeau said, extending his hand to help the other up.

"Good to be back, mate," Newkirk replied, dusting himself off.

Colonel Hogan, Kinch, and Carter crowded around the Brit. They welcomed him with smiles and open arms, but their eyes were hungry for details.

"Did James make it to the sub OK?" Hogan asked first.

"Yes, sir, Colonel. Captain O'Hare came up and took him in," Newkirk replied.

"And there was no sign of the Gestapo?" Hogan continued.

"Or those two German officers?" interjected Carter.

Newkirk shook his head. "No sign of either. Any word on them from your end?"

"Nothing that Klink's let slip," Hogan said. "Speaking of Klink, he's set to take you out of solitary today. Better hurry up and get you back there."

The men dispersed to allow Newkirk a moment to change into his RAF uniform before LeBeau and Hogan snuck the Brit back into solitary.

Dawn turned into a grey morning. Newkirk laid down on the bed with the blanket wrapped around him. He shivered and chattered his teeth together just as Klink opened the cell door.

"Your five days in solitary are over, Newkirk. I hope by now you have learned your lesson and will become a model prisoner," Klink said.

Newkirk slowly got up from the bed with the blanket pulled tight around him. "You're not pulling me leg now, sir?" the Brit asked.

Klink stomped his foot on the ground and yelled, "Get out!"

The Brit dropped the blanket and shouldered his way past Klink. "All you had to do was say so," he mumbled.

The day moved on without any more shenanigans. "The cool down phase" London called it. Not that Newkirk was looking for any shenanigans. Once the adrenaline from helping James wore off, all the Brit wanted was a ruddy nap.

Though there was no rest for the weary. During the second roll call of the day, a military car pulled up at the gates. It didn't look like General Burkhalter's car nor Major Hochstetter's car. LeBeau looked to Newkirk and Newkirk looked to Colonel Hogan. The American kept his eyes on the car as it pulled up in front of Klink's office.

The Commandant came out of his office, ready to receive his report from Schultz. He stopped in his tracks when the passenger side door popped open to reveal Major Klaus. His uniform was disheveled, and his hair stuck out at odd ends. Klink stared at the other, completely taken aback.

"Major Klaus? What happened?" he asked, taking a step towards the man.

The Major held up his hand to the Colonel and sneered. "Your inefficiency happened, Colonel Klink," he began and looked around the line up before marching over to the British Corporal. He pointed at Newkirk and said, "I encountered this man in Essen yesterday with our escaped prisoner. He was going by the name of Henry Gobshire."

"I think you're mistaken, Major. His name isn't Henry Gobshire. And he's been in solitary for the past five days," Colonel Hogan said.

Klink gave the American a look before adding, "And he was checked on 3 times a day. He was there every time."

"I want these barracks torn apart! These men are hiding my prisoner and perhaps an even bigger operation," the Major shouted. He called for guards that did not come. "What is the meaning of this insubordination?!"

"Major, you have no grounds to destroy this camp or order Klink's men around," Hogan replied.

"Silence, Colonel Hogan," Klink ordered, trying to take control of the situation. "But he's right, Major, you can't take apart Stalag 13 without reason."

"My reason is I suspect my prisoner is here getting help from your prisoners!" Major Klaus yelled.

"I'm sorry, Major, but I must deny your request on the grounds that it is simply impossible. I must also ask you to please leave Stalag 13."

Two guard came to the Major's side, ready to "assist". Major Klaus balled his fist and seethed, "So you'd run the risk of harboring a fag in the camp?"

"What's a fag?" Klink asked.

Before the Major could respond, Newkirk butted in and explained, "A fag is British slang for cigarette. It's very common to pick up once you start fraternizing with the prisoners."

"Fraternizing with the prisoners you say? Guards," Klink yelled. Major Klaus looked at Klink bug eyed as the two guards grabbed him. His mouth opened and closed like a fish's as Klink ordered, "Put this man in solitary until the Gestapo can get here."

The soldiers saluted and dragged a screaming Major Klaus to the solitary unit. Newkirk struggled to suppress a smirk. Now Klaus would get a taste of his own medicine.


End file.
